


A Doe Among the Bears and Wolves

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Damsels in Distress, Emotional Hurt, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Misogyny, Multi, Politics, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Religious Conflict, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Aurelia Callaina was never meant to be near anything resembling power. She was a minor bureaucrat who tallied taxes in Bruma, constantly reminded to be grateful for the mercy of Titus Mede that spared her the consequences of her grandfather's treason. Then her cousin Siddgeir died and desperate to maintain power in Falkreath, the Legion brings her to the Hold as a puppet-Jarl. The same day, a dragon attacks Helgen.She was meant to be a puppet-Jarl. But this doe of the Kreathling lineage will prove the bears and wolves who would devour her otherwise.(A throwback to the Callaina of 'Certain As Death and Taxes' and 'The Winter War').





	1. Unbound

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, torture, child abuse, child abandonment, child neglect and child death. I have so many AUs, dammit!

 

There was an escort waiting for her at the border gate, their Legion armour burnished bright and their heavy-shouldered, plain-faced Quaestor carrying a white fur cloak over one arm. Aurelia Callaina disembarked from the carriage which carried her in secret from Bruma, tipped the driver with a few septims, and walked the ten paces to him. She waved away the cloak, earning a raised eyebrow, and looked up at the heavy oaken gate which divided Cyrodiil from Skyrim. It was bolted shut and guarded by a ten-man squad, most armed with crossbows and spears, and their Quaestor was throwing open each of the bolts hastily. The Pale Pass wasn’t the only way through the Jerall Mountains, but it was the easiest and safest, so the Legion maintained a tight grip over it.

            “We’ll brief you on the other side,” the Quaestor said in a soft tenor. “I’m Hadvar, Legate Primus Rikke’s personal aide.”

            “Aurelia Callaina,” she responded automatically.

            “I know.” Hadvar’s expression was blandly pleasant. Callaina supposed any aide to a Legate Primus would learn something about politics or be assigned to the worst post in Skyrim. “If it helps, you’re here because of your maternal lineage, not your paternal one.”

            That didn’t help at all, because Callaina couldn’t see the point. Her mother had been from Falkreath, the Hold that lay on the border of Cyrodiil and Hammerfell, and the few memories she had of the woman were… unpleasant. Those who’d known Sigdrifa Stormsword claimed she was almost the spitting image of her. That wasn’t promising. Still, this wasn’t likely an execution. A discreet knife in a Bruma alley, some known vagrant executed, would have been enough. Why haul her all the way to Skyrim, complete with secret escort, if her death was required by the Empire?

            The border Quaestor threw open the gates and Hadvar led Callaina and his squad through. From here, she could see a spread of pine and fir trees beneath the snowline with a hint of green-golden plain beyond it. A couple Auxiliaries waited with horses, shaggy sturdy creatures of piebald brown and white. “It’s a few hours to Helgen,” Hadvar explained as he led her to the smallest, most docile steed. “Can you ride?”

            “Some,” she admitted. “Not much.”

            “We’ll be going at a trot. The mountain road’s too slick with ice for a gallop until we’re practically at Helgen.”

            Callaina mounted, baring her legs to the knee because of the dress she wore, and tied her pack to the saddle. Not that she owned a lot. The Empire frowned upon its bureaucrats of disgraced family acquiring more than the essentials and before that, the Imperial Workhouse had drummed any sense of pride or vanity from her, and before _that_ , she’d been a sickly unwanted child.

            The mare she rode might be plain and rugged, but it had the smooth gait of a palfrey, and Callaina allowed herself to relax a little. Hadvar trotted beside her, one hand on his sword, knees guiding his gelding with the ease of an experienced cavalryman. “I’m not going to mince words,” the Quaestor said as they rode along. “You’ve been brought to Skyrim to become the Jarl of Falkreath Hold. Your cousin Siddgeir choked to death on a fishbone last week and his predecessor, your grandfather Dengeir, supported the Stormcloaks. The other candidates are the sons of Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel Jarl of Windhelm, by your mother Sigdrifa and therefore are unsuitable for the Stag Throne.”

            “Wait, my mother survived the Great War?” Callaina asked in surprise.

            “Sadly, yes. She whelped twice by Ulfric – Bjarni and Egil. One’s about eight years younger than you and the other ten.” Hadvar’s mouth was tight. “When we clean out the Stormcloak infection, we’ll have to execute those two with their parents.”

            Only years of practice kept Callaina’s expression blank and her fists unclenched on the reins. “So I’m the Imperial choice?”

            “Yes. Rikke noted your exemplary record in the Provincial Revenue Service and convinced General Tullius you deserved a chance. Given that the alternative was naming the Altmer Steward Nenya as Jarl, which would have set the churls on fire with outrage, he agreed.” Hadvar glanced at her. “The Emperor has decided to show a great deal of trust in you, Aurelia. Don’t piss on it.”

            “It’s Callaina,” she told him. “My clan followed the old Akaviri custom of surname first for the women.”

            “Ah. Pity they didn’t follow the old Akaviri custom of accepting their lord’s decrees without question.” They followed a winding, poorly maintained road towards the town Callaina could see in the distance. “There will be soldiers posted to protect you from Stormcloak assassins. Ulfric was counting very badly on one of his sons being named heir to the Hold and he won’t let a little thing like you being step-kin stop him.”

            Soldiers meant to keep her in line. Callaina reviewed what she knew of Falkreath Hold, which was sadly not enough. It produced lumber, furs and funerals, only its strategic location between Cyrodiil and Hammerfell giving any importance. “Tell me of Falkreath, Quaestor. I don’t want to go in ignorant of a Hold I’m supposed to rule in the Empire’s name.”

            “Little enough to say. It’s the graveyard of Skyrim with a sideline of furs and firs.” Hadvar chuckled at his own pun. “Nenya knows her business and she’s barely middle age for an Altmer – her father was Kreathling and she’s never known anything else other than the Hold. All you need to do is sign off on the appropriate paperwork, live within your means and vote for the Empire in the Moot. Oh, and marry a suitable husband and produce an heir, but that can wait a year or two.”

            So she was a puppet. Callaina wasn’t surprised. Titus Mede wouldn’t let an Aurelii within a blink of anything resembling real power.

            They reached the main road and met a convoy of wagons loaded with Skyrim-born Nords in blue-grey tabards. General Tullius led it on his magnificent blood-bay stallion. “You made better time than I expected, Hadvar,” the stocky commander of the Bruma Fourth greeted with a smile.

            “I didn’t want to miss Ulfric’s execution,” the Quaestor replied with a salute. “I see you got the bastard.”

            “And one of his brats.” Tullius nodded to the last wagon, where two burly men in finer chainmail than their friends – the older one gagged – sat. “Which one is it again?”

            The younger Stormcloak responded with a stream of obscenity in three different languages, describing Tullius’ lineage and sexual habits, in which draugr, ice wraiths and farmstock figured prominently. His companion in the wagon, a lean Redguard youth, grinned broadly and the last Nord – a rangy sun-blond man – roared with laughter. Even the gagged Ulfric looked amused.

            “That’s Bjarni,” Hadvar said blandly. “Egil’s said to be more reserved.”

            “Charming,” Tullius said dryly. “But nothing more than I expected from rebel scum.”

            Hadvar fell in beside Tullius on one side and Callaina on the other as they rode towards Helgen. She didn’t look over her shoulder at her half-brother or stepfather. If they knew who she was, they probably held her in as much contempt as her mother had. Sickly. Useless. Not Nord enough.

            “Aren’t you cold?” Tullius asked Callaina, obviously trying to make small talk. As a courtier, he made a brilliant general.

            “I’m fine, General,” Callaina said quietly. “It’s summer in the Jeralls. I’m used to it.”

            “I’m sorry you have to see this,” he said with genuine regret. “But it must be done.”

            “I’m aware of the punishments involving treason. The Emperor made _quite_ certain of that.” Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

            “I won’t lie to you. Your mother’s done her best to erase your existence on the Skyrim side of things. She swore to Hoag, Ulfric’s father, that she was a Shieldmaiden until she wed in Windhelm. Pity the Empire had copies of the paperwork.” Tullius sighed. “This is as much to undermine her credibility as a potential successor to Ulfric as it is to make sure Falkreath remains in the right hands. We’ve assigned some of our best men to keep you safe, Aurelia Callaina.”

            “Thank you,” she said softly.

            They travelled in silence, only the muttering of the prisoners in the wagons breaking the sound of wind over mountain. Soon enough they reached a substantial walled village, complete with Imperial fort, that had to be Helgen. The Redguard youth was regarding her, of all people, with a pitying gaze. He looked vaguely familiar, his smooth skin a deep sepia and his nose a raptor’s beak to match her own. Maybe he was descended from one of the several bastards her father reportedly left behind.

            At Helgen, the headsman waited with a finely honed axe and a Priestess of Arkay stood to give last rites. Tullius wasn’t messing around. One by one, the prisoners climbed down from the wagon and divided into two lines, Hadvar reading the list of names until he got to the Redguard. “Ma’am, this one’s not on the list,” he said to the Tribune.

            “Of course I’m not,” the young man said in a light tenor. “I am Cirroc ibn-“

            “No one cares!” snapped the Tribune. “He goes to the block.”

            “That would be a very bad idea,” Cirroc said firmly. “I am the grandson of Beroc ibn Sura-Mai al-Dragonstar, a Sword-Saint of the First Rank, and a Forebear of Hammerfell. If I die, Falkreath can kiss its landbound trade from Hammerfell goodbye.”

            The executioner grunted. “His forearm tattoos confirm at least part of his story,” he said in an eastern Hammerfell accent. “His mother is Safiya, Lady of Elinhir, General.”

            “What were you doing in Skyrim then?” Tullius demanded of Cirroc.

            “Chasing traitors to the Ra Gada. One Iman al-Suda, who saw fit to betray Taneth to the Aldmeri Dominion in the Great War, and the necromancer Lu’ah al-Skaven. If you hadn’t rounded up everyone so hastily, I would have happily shown you my papers from the Cheydinhal crossing,” Cirroc replied calmly. There was much about him that reminded Callaina of her uncle Irkand.

            “Unbind him,” ordered Tullius. “I’ve got enough problems with the Old Holds. I don’t need Hammerfell on my arse too.”

            One of the Legionnaires obeyed and Cirroc rubbed his wrists. “It was an honour to ride with you. I hope you find your place in Sovngarde,” he said to the Stormcloaks with a Forebear salute.

            Tullius reddened and Callaina shook her head. More courage than common sense, that one.

            “May you die with a sword in your hands,” Bjarni replied warmly.

            More might have been said but an eerie roar echoed across the Jeralls. “What was that?” Hadvar asked.

            “Nothing. Let’s get this over with.” Tullius dismounted and so did Callaina. She was under no illusions who the true rulers of Falkreath were.

            Events proceeded with dispatch and the Priestess began to give them last rites. One Nord, a brown-haired man, told her to shut up in the name of Talos before striding to the block, loudly declaring he didn’t have all morning. With a final insult to the Redguard executioner’s ancestors, he was pushed to the block and decapitated promptly.

            “Gorran, as brave in death as he was in life,” murmured the sun-blond Nord from Ulfric’s wagon.

            “He certainly went out in style,” Cirroc said cheerfully.

            “Bjarni Stormcloak,” grated Tullius.

            “It’s Ulfricsson. Can’t any of you Imperials learn our fucking names?” Bjarni said as he trotted towards the block, then turned around to look at Callaina. “Take care of Falkreath, big sister. The Imperials will suck it dry to keep that tottering old cunt Mede on his throne for a few months longer if you let them.”

            Callaina put a hand to her mouth in sudden grief. She could have liked this irreverent brother of hers.

            The headsman was lifting his axe to behead Bjarni when something black-winged and malevolent landed on the tower. “YOL TOOR SHUL!” it Shouted, sending fire and stone from the sky.

            Bedlam erupted and Callaina found herself being dragged towards shelter by Cirroc. “Guess it’s your lucky day,” the Redguard said as they headed into the right-hand tower. “You get _two_ brothers.”

            “What?” Callaina said stupidly.

            “Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir at your service. Can we save the stories until we’re out of here? Da told me about dragons and that one looks particularly mean.” They entered the tower, only to be surrounded by Ulfric, Bjarni, the blond Stormcloak and a few others.

            Callaina drew her dagger, resolved to die on her feet with a weapon in her hand, but Ulfric simply laughed in a rumbling baritone. “Put that away before you hurt yourself,” he told her. “None of us will kill you, though it might be wise to do so.”

            She reluctantly obeyed as Cirroc frowned at the Jarl. “I have no quarrel, and much sympathy, for the Stormcloaks,” the Sword-Saint said clearly. “Don’t test that by harming my sister.”

            “I said none of us would kill her,” Ulfric replied calmly. “You better move it. The World-Eater has never eaten Redguard before and you wouldn’t want to be the first.”

            Callaina rushed up to the stairs, only the World-Eater to smash through the window and set the Stormcloak ahead of her on fire. She waited for the dragon to withdraw its head, knotted her skirt up for more freedom of movement, and jumped from the window into the burning inn below. Casting Stoneflesh gave her enough immunity to the flames to get through safely, where she found Hadvar coaxing a little boy from his half-eaten father, who urged him on weakly. Just as young Haming made it, Thorolf was set alight by the dragon.

            “You’re alive, good. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this beast will choke on Ulfric.” He led her along the wall as the dragon wreaked havoc among the battlemages, Tullius ordering people to move and soldiers to cover the fleeing civilians. Cirroc was nowhere to be seen.

            They eventually made it into the open, where the sun-blond Nord arrived with Bjarni and Cirroc in tow. “Ralof, you damned traitor!” Hadvar spat. “Where do you think you’re going?”

            “We’re escaping, Hadvar, and you can’t stop us,” Ralof replied with a merry grin.

            “Fine! But I hope that beast takes you all to Sovngarde!” He grabbed Callaina by the wrist and dragged her towards the Keep.

            Once inside, he allowed her to catch her breath as he collected a bow and arrows. Yesterday, she’d been counting septims and making tallies in an account book. Callaina wished it was still yesterday. “Can you fight?” he demanded.

            “I know… fire spell… and Stoneflesh,” she gasped. He didn’t need to know about her gift for Telekinesis.

            “It’ll do. Throw fire in their face and follow it up with a sword-point to the gut. Keep your elbow bent a little.” He handed her a gladius. “You’re a Nord with Redguard ancestry in you. It’s instinctive.”

            Callaina nodded weakly and they left the barracks. When they opened the door to another room, Ralof tackled Hadvar to the ground. “Grab her, Bjarni!”

            Her other half-brother did so and threw her over his shoulder. Cirroc coolly picked up the gladius she dropped and brought its pommel down on Hadvar’s head, knocking him out.

            “Nice work,” Ralof said approvingly.

            Callaina thanked them by vomiting down Bjarni’s back from the shoulder in her stomach, the terror of the dragon outside and her general fear.

            They went deeper into the Keep, coming across a torture chamber where Stormcloaks were butchering the interrogator and his assistant under Ulfric’s cool gaze. “Leave her behind,” he told Bjarni bluntly. “Let the gods decide if she survives or not, but we dare not tarry. There are more Imperials ahead.”

            “Father-“ Bjarni began, only to be shut down by his father’s hard look.

            “I know she’s your sister and we Nords value our kin. But she’s an Imperial puppet, one who will do as her masters command her. Perhaps if she survives this, she will develop a backbone. Until then, I save my care for the true sons and daughters of the snow.”

            Bjarni lowered her to the ground and handed her an iron axe. “Swing it down or to the side. You’re a Nord. It’s in your blood.”

            The Stormcloaks left and Callaina vomited what little remained in her stomach. What had she done to deserve any of this?

            “Let’s go,” Cirroc said quietly. “I don’t think that dragon is finished here.”

            Callaina rose to her feet shakily and they went through the dungeon to the caves, where the bodies of spiders and Imperial troops greeted them. Beyond that was another cave with a dead bear that Bjarni was skinning with the help of Ralof. Ulfric and the others were nowhere to be found.

            “Don’t take this the wrong way, Bjarni, but your father’s a prick,” Cirroc said easily as they approached. “Father always said the Stormsword was a hag from the deepest pits of Oblivion but your father’s lack of compassion is astonishing.”

            “As my father said, he saves his care for those he deems true Nords,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “It’s not her fault she’s never gotten the chance to be a true Nord.”

            “My name is Callaina,” she said bitterly. “Yesterday, I was tallying taxes in Bruma. Now I’m apparently the Jarl of Falkreath, a place I know next to nothing about, and the _fucking World-Eater_ just tried to eat us all. Pardon me if I’m not exactly a hero of Ysgramor, okay?”

            “I don’t mind,” Ralof said with a grin. “You’re a lot prettier than most heroes of Ysgramor.”

            Cirroc rolled his brown eyes heavenward. “We better go. I want to make sure that damned dragon’s gone.”

            “If you ever escape the Imperials, come look us up in Windhelm,” Bjarni suggested cheerfully. “I want to see Mother’s face when you walk into the Palace of the Kings.”

            “I would give up my hope for Sovngarde to see _that_ ,” Ralof said fervently.

            Callaina chose to just walk away. Today was just too much. At least Cirroc seemed sane.


	2. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Discussions of torture, child abuse and corpse desecration.

 

“Looks like he’s gone,” Cirroc said, shading his eyes as the dragon flew away into the sunset. “Got to say, having seen what one of those can do, I have a whole new level of appreciation for Sura-HoonDing’s fight against Nafalilargus, the dragon who guarded the soul of Prince A’Tor.”

            None of the names meant a thing to Callaina, but she nodded anyway. They were at the start of a game trail that went down the hill towards a river. No doubt there would be a road nearby.

            “Falkreath,” she said. “We need…”

            “Of course. I can also dispatch a message to Elinhir from there concerning the events of today. Mother and Grandfather need to know.” Cirroc’s mouth tightened. “It’s probably a day from the border and the border’s a half-day walk from Falkreath town. If you want sanctuary, it can be provided.”

            Callaina was tempted, oh she was tempted. But cowardice wouldn’t change anything. “Falkreath,” she said once more. “Hammerfell doesn’t need trouble with the Empire.”

            Cirroc nodded. “Let’s find the road. I’m sure we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

            It quickly became apparent that whatever a Sword-Saint was, a wilderness guide wasn’t one of them. They found the road soon enough, but by the time they reached a trio of old stones overlooking a massive lake, they were hopelessly lost. Callaina brushed aside some moss on one of them to reveal the constellation of the Thief on the left-hand side one; it glowed blue-white, a spear of light launching to pierce the underbelly of an amber-red sky, and her fingers tingled.

            “The Guardian Stones, three of the thirteen Standing Stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape.” That was Bjarni from behind them. “Warrior, Thief, Mage. It’s said that the first one you touch determines your doom.”

            He went to the right-hand one and touched it confidently, bringing out the Warrior constellation. Ralof hung back, the bearskin slung across his shoulders, and after a moment Cirroc touched the Warrior one too. Callaina brushed her tingling fingers on her filthy dress and did nothing more.

            “So, I’m guessing this isn’t the road to Falkreath?” she asked.

            “No, the road to Falkreath goes directly through Helgen. The town itself is tucked into a valley in the Jerall foothills,” Ralof explained. “You might as well come to Riverwood with us and then go on to Whiterun. There’s a carriage that will take you to Falkreath near the stables.”

            It was as good a plan as any, even if it meant travelling with rebels. She nodded and Cirroc smiled in relief.

            The walk was pleasant enough, but for the wolves that Bjarni and Ralof dispatched with their bows and paused to skin. “It’s an offence to Kynareth to waste a hunting kill,” the sun-blond Nord told them. “Pelts can often fetch you a few coins in even the poorest village. Gerdur was saying Hod and Frodnar needed new cloaks for the winter, so this is a blessing for them.”

            Riverwood was a small neat village just over the border in Whiterun Hold, notable for having a general store, smithy and lumber mill. Ralof’s sister Gerdur owned the last and was hetwoman – Mayor, Callaina supposed – of the village because she was a cousin to the local Jarl, one Balgruuf the Greater. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, a feminised version of her brother, and her garments were of fine fabric, if worn and discreetly mended. “Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you, but is it safe?” she asked after embracing Ralof.

            “We didn’t see any Imperials on the road,” Ralof reported. “But we need to warn you…”

            “I heard about Ulfric’s capture,” Gerdur said with a sigh before calling for the blond man at the mill. “Hod, get down here!”

            “Why, is Sven drunk on the job again?” he asked jovially.

            “Hod, just get down here.” Gerdur’s voice sharpened.

            “I’ll be down in a minute,” Hod called back.

            A whirlwind of a boy with sandy hair and a dog ran over. “Uncle Ralof! Can I use your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric?”

            “Easy, Frodnar,” Ralof laughed. “I not only know Jarl Ulfric, but I’m travelling with his son Bjarni.”

            Gerdur smiled indulgently despite the obvious worry in her eyes. “Frodnar, I need you to watch the road from Helgen. If you see any Imperials, let me know.”

            “Don’t worry, Uncle Ralof, I won’t let the faithless Imperials get you or Prince Bjarni!” Frodnar promised.

            Bjarni pulled a plain silver ring from his little finger and handed it to Frodnar. “It’ll make you stealthy, like a good sentry should be,” he told the boy gently. “Now go. We’re counting on you.”

            Frodnar practically squealed before he saluted and ran off.

            “Faithless Imperial?” Callaina asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “For denying the god who built their Empire,” Ralof replied.

            Hod joined them. “Ralof, what’s going on? You look like you’ve been dragged through nine planes of Oblivion facedown.”

            Gerdur led them to a stump at the end of the little island the mill was located on, where Ralof collapsed in exhaustion, dumping the bearskin at his feet. Bjarni lowered his own pelts and Callaina exchanged a glance with Cirroc. This was awkward.

            “It’s true. We were captured at Dark Crossing and Ulfric surrendered to buy Bjarni time to escape. Sadly, the Imperials had arranged some kind of sweep for about ten miles around Darkwater Crossing-“

            “My gods, the carnificina,” Callaina said with a sharp indrawing of breath. “That’s why Cirroc was picked up too.”

            “The carnificina?” Bjarni asked, eyes narrowed.

            “It’s the gathering and execution of all unknown people within a certain radius of a town in a rebellious province,” Callaina said slowly. “It’s to show the rewards for cooperation to the townspeople and the punishment for rebellion to everyone else. It’s _supposed_ to be a last resort.”

            “And they call _us_ the traitors to Skyrim,” Gerdur said disgustedly. “Go on, Ralof.”

            “So we all got dragged to Helgen. Tullius was embarrassed into letting Cirroc go because he’s a Redguard noble whose mother controls the landbound trade to Falkreath, then he lined us up to kiss the headsman’s bride.” Ralof drank from a bottle of mead Hod handed him. “Bjarni was on the block when the dragon attacked.”

            “Dragon?” Gerdur blurted. “You mean a real live…”

            “Yeah. We escaped and here we are,” Ralof finished with a sigh.

            “Do you know if Ulfric escaped?” Gerdur asked anxiously.

            “It’ll take more than a dragon to finish Ulfric Stormcloak off,” Ralof said, a shade too heartily. “So the dark-haired lout I dragged here is Bjarni Ulfricsson, the Redguard is Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir, and the lady is the Imperial pick to replace Jarl Siddgeir in Falkreath.”

            “Callaina,” she said. “I’m Aurelia Callaina.”

            Gerdur turned shrewd blue eyes on her. “You have the Kreathling look to you,” the hetwoman agreed.

            “She’s my paternal half-sister,” Cirroc said.

            “And my maternal one,” Bjarni added. “It appears the Stormsword’s told a few fibs.”

            “No surprise there,” Gerdur said dryly. Callaina wondered what she knew about Sigdrifa.

            “Yesterday, I was counting taxes in Bruma, so this is all news to me,” Callaina said slowly. “My main priority is to get to Whiterun and catch a carriage to Falkreath town. Only Kynareth knows what kind of mess Siddgeir’s left me, if he was as spendthrift as I recall him to be. I heard nothing, I saw nothing. That’s the best I can offer, Gerdur.”

            “Siddgeir was a Thalmor toady and Imperial puppet,” Gerdur said bluntly. “You… I think you’ve got some of the Stormsword’s steel if you survived a dragon attack. Go home and think on what you’ve seen of the Empire today, Jarl Callaina. You seem like a good woman in a bad place.”

            Callaina grimaced. It was worse than she thought. “Does Riverwood have an inn? I think it would be diplomatic if I stayed there.”

            “It does. Tell Delphine that Gerdur sent you. That’ll get you a better bed and some decent mead.” Gerdur smiled wryly. “Talos guide you, Jarl Callaina.”

            She’d rather Kynareth did so, thank you very much, but Callaina nodded in gratitude. No need to piss off the village Mayor.

…

Ralof and Bjarni waited until after everyone to use the communal sauna tucked between Gerdur’s house and the Riverwood Trader because, of course, Hadvar limped in from Helgen two hours past sunset. Cirroc had opted to stay with them, saying “Callaina needs some space at the moment”, and paid Gerdur for her hospitality by agreeing to warn Balgruuf about the dragon tomorrow. The Redguard was quite likeable, demonstrating some of the simpler sword-dances of his people with such speed and grace that Bjarni could almost see the invisible opponent he sparred. So far as he could tell, a Sword-Saint was like a Greybeard, only one trained to fight with something called ‘a spirit sword’ – which like the Thu’um wasn’t something to be shown or used idly.

            “You’ve had quite a day,” Ralof observed softly as they gathered pine branches for the steaming. “How are you coping?”

            “I’m coping,” Bjarni told him, putting the pine branches a small bundle. There was nothing like the fresh resinous scent of pine to ease aches and clear noses after a long day. “Do you think Father survived?”

            Ralof took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I’ve seen him pull greater miracles out of nowhere. But until I see him in the flesh…”

            Bjarni knew the feeling. “If he’s dead, Egil or I will have to take command,” he said heavily. “Mother is a fine warrior and tactician… but that’s it.”

            They entered the sauna, which was divided into a small common room where clothing was left, and two other parts for private steaming. Judging by the pile of clothing on the bench, Bjarni’s sister was in the right one, so they took the left. Ralof warmed the rocks with the Fire-Calling galdr and they baked in the resinous steam, muscles exhausted by running and fighting finally relaxing.

            “Your mother lied,” the hearthman finally said. “She lied to Hoag and you two, maybe even Ulfric himself.”

            “I think my father knew,” Bjarni admitted with a sigh. “He’s too shrewd not to.”

            “Probably. But…” Ralof echoed Bjarni’s sigh. “It would be easier, more pragmatic, to kill her now. Falkreath Hold is critical to controlling the border of Skyrim. In the hands of a weak Jarl, it could – would – fall easily.”

            Bjarni wasn’t naïve. He saw how Hadvar manhandled his sister at Helgen, how subdued and obedient she’d been in the presence of General Tullius. Callaina had even less illusions about the Empire than any Stormcloak. Only Talos knew what she’d witnessed over the years.

            But it was a long way between Solitude and Falkreath. Cirroc had made it abundantly clear that to harm their sister was to make a personal enemy of him and therefore the border region of Hammerfell. Bjarni may only have an inkling of what a Sword-Saint was yet he knew the exact position the slightly younger Redguard held and the power of his relatives. Hammerfell cared only for stability, not who ruled in Skyrim, and would only give alliance to those who proved themselves worthy. A fair attitude for the ones who decimated the Thalmor on their own after Mede ceded large portions of the southern coast to the Dominion.

            “The dragons complicate matters,” he finally said. “We can’t afford to destabilise Falkreath by removing its Jarl. I think Callaina will do the best she can within the limits of whatever authority the Empire gives her… and will acquiesce to whoever controls the province.”

            “I’d hate to kill her, honestly,” Ralof confessed. “As for control… I have a few thoughts on that. Siddgeir’s policy of allowing bandits to operate in return for a cut of the profits means that most of Falkreath’s forts and mines are infested with the bastards. If we clear them out, it would show that the Stormcloaks are capable of protecting its people. That could win her allegiance – or at least official indifference.”

            “And if it’s decided she should be removed, let her return to Hammerfell with Cirroc,” Bjarni agreed. “A talented bureaucrat can make a living wherever she goes.”

            “Sounds good to me.” Ralof poured some more water on the hot rocks. When it was done, they’d scrape the sweat from them with bone scrapers and rinse what was left with ice-cold water. Baths with scented soaps were all very well, but most Nords relied on saunas, and Ulfric insisted that the Stormcloak commanders live much like their subordinates.

            When they emerged from the sauna, refreshed and clean, Callaina was perched on a rock with her back to them as she worked out knots from her long black hair with a bronze comb that gleamed with enchantment. “Start with Embershard Mine if you’re going to clear out bandits for me,” she said with a brief glance over her shoulder. “Delphine tells me they’ve been raiding the road and even Riverwood, but Balgruuf’s men can’t chase them across the Hold border. Why, I can’t imagine.”

            “Hold politics,” Ralof explained. “Balgruuf is neutral in the civil war and if he violates your border, it could be seen as an act of war.”

            Callaina sighed and shook her head. “I’ve seen what happens to the losers of a rebellion. Tullius was being incredibly merciful by sending you to the block. Most other Generals would have used the cross and lined the roads to Windhelm with the bodies of Stormcloaks. Just like they did in County Bruma after the Aurelii rebellion.”

            “What did they do to you?” Bjarni asked, horrified by the flat tone of her voice. He’d heard a similar note in the survivors of Thalmor interrogation, including his father, when they talked about what they’d endured.

            “Showed me the consequences of treason. My uncle was declared Immunitas for his actions at the Battle of the Red Ring. My father was in Hammerfell, I’ve now learned, and Mother was obviously in Skyrim.” Callaina swiftly braided her hair and tied it off with a leather thong. “Just think the consequences of your rebellion through, Bjarni. Tullius’ mercy has its limits and he may very well throw all of you to the Thalmor as Talos worshippers.”

            “Better to die painfully and go to Sovngarde than to live a coward’s life under the Empire,” Ralof said firmly.

            “More like die and spend eternity in the Soul Cairn,” Callaina replied grimly. “That’s what the Thalmor do to Talos worshippers: torture them to death and then soul trap them.”

            “All the more reason to win this war,” Ralof told her. “Don’t count us out until the Legion is storming the gates of Windhelm.”

            “Tullius is the best commander in the Legion,” she said with a sigh. “Short of a gods-wrought miracle, you’re doomed.”

            Bjarni decided, then and there, he’d win the civil war by himself if he had to. No Nord should ever sound so defeated. If he had his way, no Nord ever would.


	3. One Can Only Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for graphic violence.

 

If Delphine remembered Callaina, the Blade said nothing, only giving her the left-hand room in the inn with a brusque comment. Bjarni and Ralof’s conversation in the sauna had been enlightening; she hoped she’d enlightened them to their most likely fate in return. Her sleep had been fitful, dreams of fire and knives leaving her bleary-eyed in the morning, and the gruel that she ate for breakfast tasted like paper. Cirroc appeared cheerful when he wandered into the inn, wearing studded hide armour and a cheap iron sword, and sat down at her table.

            “We’ll head out in a half-hour,” he said. “It’s a few hours’ walk to Whiterun and Balgruuf won’t see anyone until mid-morning, according to Gerdur.”

            Callaina nodded. “I didn’t say this yesterday, but thank you.”

            “One of the things that haunted Father was the fact he didn’t know what happened to you,” the young Redguard said sombrely. “Once he gets the news…”

            “He’s alive?” She drank some lukewarm water.

            “Yes. He was Lord of Elinhir for about a decade or so, then handed the reins to Mother and became a… knight-errant, I suppose, when I went to the monastery. The actual word’s hard to translate, but he travels around dealing with various problems. I saw him just before I came to Skyrim, actually. He was going to Bruma.” Cirroc sighed and shook his handsome head. “First a civil war and now dragons. Skyrim isn’t boring by any means.”

            “I’d prefer it was,” Callaina admitted.

            He smiled slightly. “I imagine so. You ready to leave? Bjarni and Ralof are heading out in an hour or so and we wouldn’t want Hadvar to think you’re consorting with ‘rebels’.”

            “He survived?”

            “Sadly, yes.” Cirroc grimaced. “I think the ones who apologise politely as they send you to the block are worse than the ones who are cheerful about it.”

            Callaina rose to her feet, saying nothing. She paid for her meal and left the inn, breathing in fresh mountain air after the indoor stuffiness. Thank Kynareth she always kept a hundred septims and her enchanted bronze comb in her beltpouch.

            It was a quiet walk down the switchback beside the waterfalls and to the crossroads, which smelt of sour alcohol and honey from the building to her left. They were halfway to the admittedly impressive Whiterun, a three-tiered city made of brown-grey fieldstone and golden-brown oak, when a creature roughly the size of an Ogre burst through someone’s barn and threw a handcart-sized boulder in their direction. Callaina instinctively dual-cast Telekinesis to fling it aside, the rock landing with a splash in the stream behind them, and the… giant… growled in displeasure.

            “Well done, but leave the rest to me,” Cirroc said as he drew his iron sword. Before she could say anything about his idiotic chivalry, he was engaging the grey-white loincloth-clad humanoid, sliding under its grasping hand and between its bulging legs. Blood bloomed in the wake of his passage and the beast fell to one knee.

            Cirroc chopped the other knee, hamstringing it, and the giant fell to both knees with a pained roar. Her brother leapt up and over its shoulder, shoving his sword between neck and shoulder, and bright blood spurted from the wound. By the time three warriors, two lightly armoured women and a behemoth of a dark-haired Nord, arrived on the scene it was slumped across someone’s cabbages and breathing out its death rattle.

            Cirroc wiped his iron sword on its fur loincloth and raised the weapon in salute to the trio. “Hail, Companions of Jorrvaskr!” he announced formally. “I apologise for stealing your kill, but the giant threw a boulder at me and my sister.”

            The oldest of the women, a lithe redhead, laughed. “Don’t apologise after that kill!”

            “You’re a Sword-Saint,” the young Colovian girl, who wore Legion-red war paint around her eyes, said knowingly. “No one else could move like that.”

            “I am,” Cirroc confirmed. “First rank, tracking two traitors to the Ra Gada. But I have to deliver a message to Jarl Balgruuf as payment for a debt of hospitality.”

            “Well, I don’t get a say who joins, but you should think of going to Jorrvaskr afterwards,” the redhead told him. “It’s been several generations since we had a Sword-Saint among the whelps.”

            Cirroc brightened. “I’d hoped to test my blade against yours. Well, the Companions in general.”

            “Don’t worry. You’ll be tested by us all should you come up to Jorrvaskr,” growled the big dark-haired man amusedly.

            Callaina smoothed down her skirts. She needed a clean dress and some Colovian brandy, not necessarily in that order. “Do you know when the carriage to Falkreath is coming in?”

            “Within the hour,” provided the Colovian girl. “What in Oblivion are _you_ doing in Skyrim?”

            It was the twist of the lips that allowed Callaina to recognise her, war paint or not. “I’ve been made Jarl of Falkreath,” she admitted. “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be in Cheydinhal learning how to dance?”

            “I can dance, but the Empire might need me to dance with steel,” Akaviria Medea said calmly.

            “Previous acquaintance?” the redhead asked curiously.

            “Our grandfathers knew each other,” Akaviria said blandly. “I was a bit surprised to see Callaina here, since she was assigned by the Imperial bureaucracy to Bruma permanently.”

            “I have a feeling I’ve got more sanction to be here than you,” Callaina said dryly. “Try not to get crushed by a giant. You’re your grandfather’s only legitimate heir.”

            “Our grandfathers didn’t get on,” Akaviria added. “There were… honest reasons on both sides of the quarrel.”

            “Don’t you love it when Cyrods spar with each other?” Cirroc said blandly to the big Nord male.

            “They sound like the Jarls at the Moot,” he rumbled. “You look Kreathling. You smell like it too. I’m Farkas and the redhead’s Aela. You need the Companions, we can be found at Jorrvaskr.”

            That was… interesting. “Thanks,” she said.

            “No problem.” He smiled gently at her. “You better hurry if you’re gonna catch the carriage.”

            Callaina turned to Cirroc. “You’ll be okay from here?”

            “I was going to ask that of you. But yes, I’ll be fine.” He smiled. “I’ll check in at Falkreath regularly. Stay safe, sister.”

            “You too,” she said softly before heading to the stables.

…

Clearing Embershard Mine of the refuse that took it over was the matter of a few hours. The arms and armour were taken up to the Falkreath Stormcloak camp, which overlooked the main road, and Bjarni felt relief to be among his battle-siblings once more. Riverwood, despite Gerdur’s hospitality, was too exposed for his liking. He’d have to edge along the southern Jeralls to get to the Rift and then cut through the tundra to return to Windhelm, as he didn’t trust the security of Balgruuf’s borders.

            Bjarni was sitting by the camp smithy, salvaging tiny iron studs from tatty hide armour that reeked of sour sweat and mead, when one of the scouts called the passage of a carriage along the road. Ralof was already at the overhang when he joined him, nodding down to the uncovered wagon with a few churls and one bedraggled Jarl crammed together on the back seats. “Who’s that Redguard woman?” Thorygg Sun-Killer, the commander of the camp, asked.

            “She’s Kreathling,” Bjarni corrected. “And the Imperial pick for the Stag Throne.”

            Thorygg automatically reached for his bow but Bjarni’s hand on his wrist stayed him. “She’s… not entirely loyal to the Empire,” he told the commander. “They’ve bent her to their will, but me and Ralof have met her, and we want to try and salvage her.”

            “Or at least bend her to ours,” Ralof added.

            “Is that why you’ve ordered us to take out any bandits we encounter?” Thorygg asked.

            “Yeah.” They watched the carriage trundle by, Callaina’s gaze darting around. There was a brittle edge to his sister, sharp as obsidian but as easily flaked. But an obsidian knife could cut a man’s throat as readily as steel.

            “The plan is to eliminate the bandits that Siddgeir allowed to operate,” Bjarni explained once the carriage was gone. “If we deliver their heads to Jarl Callaina, she’ll see the real benefit of the Stormcloaks over the Legion. More so if we hold the strategic forts and passes of Falkreath.”

            “Seems a bit much when Dengeir can just take the throne again,” Thorygg grumbled.

            “My grandfather’s losing it,” Bjarni said bluntly. “Callaina also has influential relatives in Hammerfell who’d take it amiss if she died. You know that Sword-Saint I told you about? He’s one of them.”

            “Damn,” Thorygg grunted. “Can you trust her?”

            “Not at the moment, but she deserves a chance,” Bjarni said quietly. “She was at Helgen too.”

            They returned to their business. Even in a camp that was mostly scouts and ambushers, there was never enough to do in one day.

            It was the next evening when Solaf, the Stormcloak agent in Falkreath, reported to the camp with supplies and news of the Jarl. “They’re claiming she’s the Stormsword’s get,” he said as he laid down a side of salted venison. “I can’t imagine her putting up with two men, let alone Ulfric.”

            “Her first marriage isn’t exactly common knowledge,” said one of the older campaigners, a grizzled veteran named Istara. “I was one of the bridesmaids at the wedding. Talk about colder than an ice wraith’s heart! Sigdrifa and Rusty? No, I don’t think that’s it, but they couldn’t stand each other at first sight.”

            “She’s the look to her,” Solaf conceded. “Cyrod nose all the way.”

            Bjarni had to admit his sister’s nose could plough a field. “How are the people reacting?”

            “Honestly, they’re worn down. Mathies lost his daughter to a werewolf they’ve got locked up in a pot, Runil’s doing funerals every other day, Thadgeir’s battle-brother Berit died, and Lod’s trying to find a pet dog to ease his sadness,” Solaf replied. “She could be a unicorn for all they care, so long as she doesn’t bleed them dry like Siddgeir did or send them hunting Forsworn like Dengeir.”

            “Damn, it’s worse than I thought,” Thorygg sighed. He glanced at Bjarni. “Did you know of her?”

            “Yes. I wasn’t going to announce it to all and sundry, but believe me, she looks a lot like Mother,” he temporised. “You know what the political situation was like when Mother and Father married.”

            Thorygg grunted in reluctant acknowledgement. “Should find her a decent Stormcloak husband, if she’s that easily swayed.”

            “I’d volunteer, but Sigdrifa might kill me,” Ralof said cheerfully. “She’s a fine-looking woman.”

            “I’d like to see how much spine my sister has before I make arrangements for her,” Bjarni said firmly. “Now, is there news of Helgen in Falkreath, Solaf?”

            The agent nodded. “Aye. There’s a dragon roosting up at Ancient’s Ascent already, but Jarl Callaina announced it after she was crowned. Her, Nenya and Zaria were talking about ways to fireproof the buildings. I think they’ll try snowberry resin.”

            “Not a bad idea,” Istara noted. “Any orders before you set off for Windhelm, Prince Bjarni?”

            He scratched his chin. “Solaf, I want you to be vocal in your support for my sister’s ideas, so long as they are beneficial to Falkreath and not the Empire. Tell her some of the horror stories of how the Legion treats our people when we’re captured, _particularly_ civilians like clerks and healers. Thorygg, I want you to scout Fort Neugrad and see if we can’t pry that bandit warband out. If you can, put your men in Legion armour so any reinforcements won’t know until it’s too late. Block any communication with Cyrodiil, let traders through if they’re safe, don’t interfere with Alik’r unless they’re going to be a problem. Her brother’s mother is the Lady of Elinhir.”

            “The Empire chose their puppet well,” Thorygg observed. “What if she proves loyal to the Empire?”

            “Then when we take Falkreath, we escort her to the Hammerfell border,” Bjarni said softly. “I don’t want kin blood on my hands if I can help it and the Legion dragged her away from what she used to do.”

            “What about the dragons?” Ralof asked.

            Bjarni shrugged. “Keep an eye out for them. Run if they can attack. What more can I say?”

            “First the Legion and now dragons?” Ralof sighed. “Hasn’t Skyrim suffered enough?”

            “It’s the will of the gods,” Thorygg said stoutly. “We will prevail.”

            Bjarni could only hope so.


	4. Family Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Rayya’s swords are shamshirs, but Callaina doesn’t know that. Trigger warnings for discussion of incompatible arranged marriage, psychological child abuse and torture.

 

The Jarl’s longhouse in Falkreath was what any self-respecting Cyrod noble would call a jumped-up cottage. Compared to the small room she’d rented in a shabby genteel boarding house back in Bruma, Callaina would call it a palace. A sooty, smoky palace, perhaps, but superior to her previous living quarters. The Jarl’s bedroom alone was twice the size of her old room, the bed was wide and covered in rich furs, and the furniture was old but still fine. Falkreath was known for its lumber and furs, after all.

            After arriving yesterday, telling everyone what happened at Helgen, and making a few plans with Nenya, Callaina had retreated to her bedroom and promptly fell asleep in that magnificent bed. But now she was awake and observing her domicile, noting the many preserved heads of various hunted beasts, including the deer’s head just above her throne. It was quite ghastly, to be honest, and she wondered if she could be rid of them at least.

            “My Jarl.” Callaina turned from the Stag Throne to meet the direct gaze of a Redguard woman. Compactly muscular and clad in fur-trimmed steel armour, she had blue-green tattoos of broad sweeping curves and dots around her amber-gold eyes, and wore her blue-grey burnoose lowered to reveal her shaven russet-brown scalp. Cirroc could probably name her slim curved swords, but they looked nothing like the stereotypical scimitars of the Alik’r warriors. Nenya, a middle-aged womer with pale topaz skin, saffron eyes and white-gold hair, stood next to her with a sheaf of papers in hand.

            “I thought you might prefer a female huscarl,” the Steward said quietly after Callaina inclined her head. “This is Rayya bint Jubal al-Elinhir.”

            “A pleasure to meet you,” Callaina said, offering her hand.

            After a moment, Rayya grasped it firmly, shaking once before releasing. “Your lineage is unmistakeable,” the huscarl observed.

            “Which one?” Callaina asked dryly. “They’re both fairly notorious.”

            “Your Forebear blood,” Rayya said. “Nenya briefed me on your background before offering me the position of huscarl. Farrah ibn Setareh al-Sentinel was much mourned by her family and faction when she went to Cyrodiil, because it was known she wouldn’t come back. Her younger sister Neelam is a friend of my mother and I see the resemblance between you both.”

            “I didn’t even know my grandmother’s name,” Callaina said with a flush.

            “Your other grandmother was Catriona nic Cullan of Lost Valley in the Reach,” Nenya said softly. “Her marriage to Dengeir was… disastrous.”

            Callaina knew better than anyone how unexpected relatives could trip someone up unexpectedly. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Alright. While I get these bloody heads down from the walls, I’d appreciate a briefing on who I am and where I stand in regard to the rest of Skyrim and the border towns of Hammerfell. I’m aware of the situation in County Bruma and Windhelm.”

            “You’ll need a ladder and a hammer to get them down,” Rayya said.

            “No.” Callaina lifted her right hand and it glowed green. “I know the Ra Gada don’t like magic, but I’m a half-competent Alterationist with a talent for Telekinesis. If you’re unsettled by sorcery, I’ll respect your decision to decline the position of huscarl.”

            Rayya smiled as she unbuckled her sword-belt. “Elinhir is the City of Mages, my Jarl. Alteration, Destruction and Restoration are greatly appreciated Schools. It’s the other two we don’t like.”

            “Wonderful. I’ll pull, you’ll catch.”

            Removing the hunting trophies took most of the morning because they’d been bolted to the thick wooden walls of the longhouse. After some discussion with Nenya and Rayya, it was agreed that the deer’s head could be replaced with an impressive rack of antlers to decorate the space above the Stag Throne. Then Callaina decided that since she was tidying the place up, she could Telekinetically float strips of cloth to the smoke-blackened beams and dust them. Nenya managed to brief her on an array of relatives that she didn’t even know existed, from the Forsworn of Lost Valley to the Grey-Manes of Whiterun, while maintaining a Ward to keep the soot from ruining her brocade coat. Callaina and Rayya weren’t so fortunate, so a trip to the private sauna tucked behind the longhouse was necessary once the soot and dust was swept out. One steaming and fresh clothing later, they returned to the hall.

            “You don’t appreciate how filthy a place can get until you have to clean it,” Rayya observed once inside. “It looks bare though.”

            “I’m no hunter and those heads were making me queasy,” Callaina replied. “Better bare walls than bear-heads.”

            “I’ll take the heads to Dengeir’s house,” Rayya said, nodding to the stack of hunting trophies. “Him and Thadgeir killed half the damn things, so they can have them.”

            “I appreciate it.” Callaina sighed and ran a hand through her damp hair. “Nenya, what’s the most important business to hand?”

            The Steward sighed. “Siddgeir’s debts. He lived an extravagant lifestyle more suited to Solitude or the Imperial City than Falkreath Hold.”

            “Of course he did. I take it the owed won’t just write it off with his death?”

            Nenya sighed again. “Sadly, no. Not a debt in excess of ten thousand septims.”

            That was about five years’ wages for an Imperial tax official. Callaina muttered some choice words that raised the womer’s eyebrows and made Rayya grin. “Please contact them about a payment plan. I’m not beggaring the Hold to pay them, but I won’t let the debts accumulate.”

            “Siddgeir had a fairly substantial collection of silks and jewels,” Nenya observed after checking her sheaf of papers.

            “Fantastic. Figure out if we can get refunds for them and sell what can’t be returned, please. The same with any enchanted items we may possess. I’m sure there’s a stockpile of those in the longhouse.” Callaina rubbed her forehead with a sigh. “I’d appreciate household expenses being cut to the minimum. I don’t have to impress anyone. I can eat vegetable stew and drink ale from the common stock just like everyone else. Who do we have on wage for the household?”

            “Dengeir and Thadgeir have a monthly stipend of one hundred septims each, Tekla is paid fifty septims for serving as their cook and charwoman while Helvard, Rayya and I receive similar stipends,” Nenya replied quietly. “With the loss of Helgen and its tolls…”

            “I know.” Callaina sighed again. “Can we send anyone to scour Helgen for whatever might have survived the dragon? I know there’s plenty of supplies in the Keep’s cellars and the World-Eater left it mostly intact. Tax time’s due in six weeks and whatever we can salvage will allow us to pay the Legion without digging into our meagre resources.”

            “Pay the Legion in their own supplies?” Nenya asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “No. The Legion has a substantial ‘finder’s fee’ for anyone who manages to return things they had to leave behind,” Callaina corrected with a smile. “If we salvage the supplies before the local Legate can, we’ll be able to waive our taxes entirely if it’s enough, because no district Legate I’ve ever met wants to dip into their purse for septims. They’ll have enough to get through winter and we will too. But we’ll have to get it done in the next few days. The Legion is… efficient.”

            “That’s legal?” Rayya asked in disbelief.

            “Utterly,” Callaina said smugly. “If you didn’t know already, I used to work for the Provincial Revenue Service. I know every loophole in the book.”

            “I never thought I’d welcome the tax collector,” Nenya said dryly, “But I think I’m glad you’re here.”

…

“The Kreathlings are already salvaging what they can from Helgen,” Quaestor Hadvar reported to Legate Primus Rikke and District Legate Skulnar at the small outpost built to overlook the northern end of Pale Pass. They didn’t have the troops yet to retake Fort Neugrad after its Tribune broke and ran with most of his soldiers, but reinforcements would come from the south in a week or so. “Our agent in the village told me Callaina intends to claim the finder’s fee… by way of having the harvest taxes waived. Is that legal?”

            “Yes,” Rikke told him. “It’s one of those things we put in the code to make sure local lordlings wouldn’t plunder abandoned Legion camps or raid caravans for their own gain. Given the amount of debt Siddgeir racked up, I can’t fault her for being creative. I’m pretty sure some of those merchants were Stormcloak or Thalmor agents who intended to make Siddgeir dance to their tune.”

            “Her job’s simple,” Skulnar rumbled. “Pay her taxes, keep the Hold in our hands, and vote as we require in the Moot. Are you sure it’s a good idea to let her be ‘creative’?”

            “Callaina isn’t the kind of woman to live in idle luxury while her people starve and suffer,” Rikke said quietly. “She’s not Siddgeir and she’s not Elisif. I’d rather sacrifice a year or two of taxes because the former tax official is repairing Falkreath’s tax base than have the people turn to Ulfric for relief after they’ve piked her head at the gates for mistreating them.”

            Skulnar inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words. “I’m a Kreathling man, Rikke. You’ll get no disagreement from me. But we need to make sure she doesn’t become _too_ autonomous. Callaina could wreak a lot of damage if she were to realise the power she holds.”

            “She already knows Cirroc is her brother and the connections she has through him,” Hadvar reported softly. “If the Lady of Elinhir and the Jarl of Falkreath were to join forces…”

            “I know that there’s two Stormcloak veterans in the village,” Skulnar pointed out. “I think a visit by the Thalmor will remind Callaina that it’s the Emperor’s grace keeping her from their dungeons.”

            “She’s no Talos worshipper,” Rikke said sharply.

            “No, but she’s Blades-born. Who knows what she recalls from Cloud Ruler?” Skulnar shook his head. “I think we should just hang Solaf, Bolund and Dengeir already. Make a clean sweep and provide an object lesson at the same time.”

            “He’s got a point,” Hadvar agreed. “Cirroc’s made his sympathies for the Stormcloaks known. If we purge the Stormcloak presence from Falkreath, Callaina and her brother’s family will understand we won’t tolerate treason.”

            “I’ll run the idea past General Tullius,” Rikke said reluctantly. “Just remember how the carnificina turned out.”

            “None of us expected a dragon, Legate,” Hadvar protested.

            “You’re a Nord. You grew up with the stories. I’ve had an eye on the sky since Torygg’s death.” Rikke sighed. “If we aren’t careful, any sign of brutality will drive the Kreathlings to Ulfric.”

            “But Callaina won’t go with them,” Hadvar said. “Her mother hates her.”

            “Maybe not,” Rikke said. “Now she’s useful.”

…

Sigdrifa abruptly stood up and left the war room, going upstairs to her personal quarters. Bjarni shook his head in bewilderment and maybe a little disgust. Not a hint of emotion on discovering her long-lost daughter was alive and ruling Falkreath.

            “You’re certain she’s our kin?” Egil finally asked. Bjarni’s little brother had the same cold-eyed intelligence as their mother, the same zeal and drive, but it was tempered with a genuine sense of justice and fairness. Compassion was another thing. Bjarni didn’t think anyone in his immediate family did something as soft as compassion.

            “She looks like your mother,” Ralof said. “If your mother had a Cyrod nose, Redguard complexion and a beauty to make men’s hearts beat faster.”

            Egil’s mouth twitched. “Trust _you_ to notice the last.”

            “I’m a simple man with simple tastes,” Ralof replied with an innocent shrug.

            “That’s not what Haelga down in Riften says,” Bjarni grinned. “I seem to recall something involving a horker’s tusk and leather straps-“

            “Sometimes a man likes to give and other times he likes to receive,” Ralof interrupted dryly. “It all honours Dibella in the end.”

            Bjarni supposed it did, but they were getting side-tracked. “Callaina’s our sister, whether or not it’s convenient. She’s got more a spine than the Imperials think and if we do anything to her, we’re going to have troubles with the Redguard equivalent of a Greybeard.”

            “I know of the Sword-Saints,” Egil said grimly. “If he’s a First Rank, that means he can summon a spirit sword. That means he’s able to create a weapon from his own soul capable of cutting through corundum-banded steel like a hot knife through ice. I’ve heard the greater ones can cut through ebony like it was wattle-and-daub.”

            “So. What do you think of all this, brother?” Bjarni leaned against the map table.

            “I think that Callaina should have died at birth,” Egil said bluntly. “Grandfather told me a little of the grief that her father put Mother through. He was a blatant adulterer who humiliated her in front of the Blades by sleeping with a Breton Blade who’d formerly been his own brother’s lover. She’d managed to get over much of that, Bjarni, and now the Imperials are dredging it up again to break her when we need her the most.”

            “She’s _family_ ,” Bjarni reminded him. “Callaina didn’t do any of that. Let me tell you something of the grief that the Imperials put our sister through. Because they couldn’t get their hands on her father or Mother, they made her watch the execution of her own grandfather and the Thalmor’s purge of the Blades. She warned me about what the Empire does to rebels, Egil, because she doesn’t want us to suffer. She doesn’t think we can win. But we need to show her – show the rest of Skyrim! – that we can and will.”

            Egil sighed. “I don’t deny she suffered. Maybe your plan to secure Falkreath will work. But we’re already unsteady because Father didn’t come home, Bjarni. No one knows what happened to him between Helgen and here. I’m more worried about Father than some Cyrod-raised puppet-Jarl at the moment.”

            “Can’t you get Wuunferth to scry for him?” Bjarni asked.

            “You know scrying’s not his strongest point,” Egil replied. “But… it’s worth a try.”

            “If we lose Ulfric,” Ralof said softly, “One of you will have to take command. I see few willing to follow the Stormsword.”

            Egil frowned at him. “You don’t trust our mother?”

            “I don’t trust her to see the Stormcloaks as anything other than a tool for the glory of Talos,” Ralof said bluntly. “We’re fighting for Talos, aye, but not all of us. Some of us are fighting for home, and that’s a concept your mother doesn’t understand.”

            Egil’s mouth tightened. He couldn’t refute that point.

            “So let us establish whether Father is alive or not,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “And we can go from there.”

           


	5. The Hunter Born

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for child death and cannibalism of a minor.

 

“So you’re the werewolf who decided to eat a child.”

            “I am,” Sinding the former lumberjack admitted bleakly. “I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”

            “Just happened,” Callaina said grimly.

            “Yes. I… acquired an artefact of Hircine’s that was meant to control my transformations, but it’s cursed. Only the hide of the sacred White Stag can cure my curse,” the werewolf explained. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone, Jarl! I didn’t ask to be a monster!”

            “Maybe you didn’t, but the fact remains you killed a child,” Callaina said. “For that, you have to die. May Hircine have mercy on your soul, because I can’t.”

            Sinding howled and suddenly transformed, clawing his way from the pit. Callaina dodged to the side as he ran but he shoved her aside, bolting for the door. Rayya’s curses blistered the air as he disappeared into the misty gloom of a late summer morning.

            “I can track him,” Callaina said through gritted teeth, casting Clairvoyance and producing a misty line of blue light. “Grab guards.”

            By the time they reached the abandoned cottage named Pinewatch, Sinding was beyond her Clairvoyance, and Callaina’s own curses blistered the air. “We should have just used him as target practice, dammit!”

            Her great-uncle Thadgeir, who was only a few years older than her mother, cleared his throat. “Callaina,” he said slowly. “Where did that silver ring come from?”

            Around her ring finger was a delicate silver band etched with wolves, their eyes glittering malevolently.

            “Shit.” Callaina indulged herself in one more curse. “Looks like I’m going deer hunting. I’ll be damned if I live as a werewolf because of some idiot.”

            Hircine decided to take that as a challenge. As they tracked through the dense pine undergrowth, Callaina transformed into a black werewolf thrice, each shift wrenching her bones and muscles into unnatural forms. But she’d learned to push past the pain and exhaustion as a child, even before the fall of Cloud Ruler, and so Callaina persisted. Much to her relief, Rayya, Thadgeir and the other guards didn’t immediately kill her. That was good.

            They cornered the Stag near where the pine forest petered out into the golden-green plains of Whiterun Hold. It died hard, goring one of the guards, wounding Rayya and Callaina herself. Her body wrenched itself into werewolf form once again as a misty Stag appeared over its broken form.

            “So Sinding passed on his little curse,” said Hircine, his voice low and rough. “What would you do to be free of it, Jarl of Falkreath?”

            “You can have your damned ring back,” Callaina growled.

            “Well, yes, it’ll return to me eventually. There’s just one problem. Sinding betrayed me and must be punished.” The Stag tilted its misty head. “Hunt him in Bloated Man’s Grotto, Jarl of Falkreath. Hunt him, skin him and dedicate the kill to me. You will be free of the curse.”

            She howled in agony as her body wrenched itself back into human form, the presence of Hircine fading. The sweet tang of blood still lingered in her nostrils and the dead guard’s soft spilled guts looked tasty.

            Callaina snarled and forced herself to her feet. Her wounds from the Stag were healed. “Who can go to Bloated Man’s Grotto with me?”

            “You must do this on your own,” Thadgeir said softly. “It’s the old hunt law.”

            “Fuck the old hunt law. I’m not the puppet of a Daedric Prince.”

            “You should respect Hircine,” Thadgeir told her. “He’s got old shrines all over Falkreath.”

            “I’m too hurt,” Rayya said ashamedly. “I’m sorry.”

            Callaina sighed and shook her head. “Thadgeir, tend Rayya’s wounds. Guards, protect them. If I don’t come back, Nenya’s Jarl and fuck what Dengeir thinks.”

            She cast Clairvoyance again and followed it.

            Bloated Man’s Grotto was full of hunters. “Welcome, sister,” said one of them. “Are you here for the hunt?”

            “I am Callaina, Jarl of Falkreath, and that son of a bitch Sinding ate one of my people,” Callaina said grimly. “So yes, I’m here to kill him.”

            “Not like that you won’t,” one of the others said. “Somebody find the woman some armour and a weapon.”

            Before Callaina knew it, she was clad in rough hide armour and armed with a katana that someone found at the foot of the statue of Talos deep in the grotto. “We’ll be hunting Sinding and each other,” the hunter explained. “But it isn’t fair if you don’t have the right equipment.”

            “Thanks,” Callaina said through gritted teeth.

            Then a deep horn sounded and chaos broke out. Callaina ducked into the bushes as everyone attacked each other, arrows and weapons flying everywhere. Then she cast Clairvoyance and stuck to the shadows. She wanted Sinding and she wanted this damn curse off.

            The renegade werewolf was killing someone when she found him; the hunter who’d given her the katana no less. Callaina took a slow deep breath and stalked forward in a crouch, trying not to break any twigs or rustle any leaves, and then she lashed out. The katana caught Sinding in the knee and he howled in rage, turning around. Unbidden, her body transformed into a werewolf and they clashed as beasts.

            Sinding was obviously more experienced as a werewolf and he was fresh from a kill, high from the blood streaking his muzzle. But he was only fighting for his life. Callaina was fighting for her soul. She took great raking blows to the side and drove them both over a cliff, sending them tumbling into a pool below. The rocks broke something but her body wrenched again, returning her to human form and healing the damage.

            Desperately, she reached out with Telekinesis and called the katana to her hand. Before Sinding could rise, she’d driven the quicksilver blade into his throat, channelling lightning along the weapon to wrack his body with energy. Three hacks of the finely balanced blade and it was over, Sinding’s muzzled face forever twisted in a pained snarl.

            She probably butchered the skinning but most of the hide was intact as she peeled it from the mutilated body.

            “Not bad for a bureaucrat who spent her days counting septims,” Hircine said as he assumed his stag-headed form above Sinding’s corpse. “You’re a better hunter than you realise. Imagine the power of a werewolf. It could keep you alive in these trying times.”

            “You promised me a cure,” Callaina said grimly. “I did as you asked. Poorly, but it was done.”

            “I was only making the offer.” Hircine held out his hands and she thrust the hide at him. It glowed briefly and transformed into a leather cuirass embossed with a snarling wolf’s face. “Saviour’s Hide. You earned this. My ring, if you’d please.”

            Callaina was only too happy to give him the ring. The Daedric Prince chuckled richly. “I advise you donning Saviour’s Hide before you leave my presence… or the hunters might still think you’re prey.”

            Reluctantly, Callaina donned the snug leather cuirass, which showed her limbs. Hircine nodded approvingly. “Hunt well, Aurelia Callaina. You will need the wits of the wolf in these trying times.”

            Then he faded as the rest of the hunters entered the grotto. Callaina turned, katana in hand, and a redhead in armour almost as scanty as her own stepped forward. “Well done,” she said approvingly. “Did you accept the moon’s blessing?”

            “No,” Callaina said shortly. “Sinding inflicted his curse on me and I’m free of it.”

            “It’s not as bad a curse as you might think. Sinding’s hubris was that he thought he could have the benefits without none of the drawbacks.” The redhead sighed and shook her head. “You wear Saviour’s Hide. That means you earned Hircine’s regard and therefore ours. How may we hunt for you, Champion of Hircine?”

            Callaina sighed. “I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. There’s several bandit warbands in Falkreath Hold. Would I be pressing my luck to ask you to deal with them?”

            “Yes,” the redhead said bluntly. “But the vampire clans at North Fringe Sanctum and Bloodlet Throne are worthier prey.”

            “Be my guest,” Callaina said dryly. “Falkreath’s just full of these little surprises, isn’t it?”

            The redhead chuckled. “It is an old place with old magic. Go with Hircine’s blessing, Champion, and we will deliver the vampire heads to you at the Jarl’s longhouse.”

            Callaina watched them go, wondering if she’d made some kind of Daedra’s bargain.

…

“What do you mean you can’t find anything?” Bjarni yelled.

            “What I just said!” Wuunferth retorted. “I can’t sense whether he’s dead or alive, Bjarni. I’m sorry!”

            Bjarni swore vociferously and left the mage’s workroom. He knew Wuunferth wasn’t good at scrying, but he’d thought him more competent than this. Ulfric’s disappearance destabilised the Stormcloaks at a time when they really didn’t it.

            He entered the Great Hall, where a panicky Iddra from Kynesgrove was babbling about dragons to Jorleif. “It’s awake, it’s awake,” she kept on saying.

            “What’s awake?” Bjarni snapped. Then it connected. Oh shit.

            “Get our best men,” he ordered as he strode for the door. “We buried that dragon once, we can do it again!”

            Ralof and ten good soldiers met him at the gates. “Is this wise?” the hearthman asked, resting his warhammer across his shoulders.

            “Probably not,” Bjarni said. “But we can’t find Father and I want to kill something.”

            He couldn’t explain it, but he had to go confront the dragon at Kynesgrove.

            “Here’s to hoping we don’t die,” Ralof said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

            For trained soldiers, it was a quick run to Kynesgrove, a mining village near Windhelm. The black dragon from Helgen was hovering over the mound and as they approached, he said, “SLEN TIID VO!”

            The mound burst open, rocks spraying everywhere, and a skeletal dragon climbed out of the hole. Fire soon fleshed it once more and it roared in triumph. “Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”

            Something about kings and dominion and time. Bjarni had always managed to pick Dovahzul up quicker than Egil, but he was more interested in learning creative ways to use it instead of Shouts. “Hin monah los siigonis!” he bellowed.

            “We’re doomed,” Ralof muttered as the beast turned its attention towards them. “Shields!”

            It breathed fire but Bjarni had already jumped to the side.

            “I am Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!” Its tone was almost conversational. “My lord Alduin requires your death! I am glad to oblige him.”

            “There’s your first mistake, you overgrown lizard!” Bjarni yelled as he leapt towards the dragon’s flanks. “Archers!”

            There were two archers among the survivors of the black dragon’s Shout and they dropped their shields, unlimbered bows and aimed at the green-scaled dragon.

            “Shieldmen, protect the archers!” Ralof ordered.

            They obeyed and arrows struck the dragon to seemingly no avail. It laughed and opened its mouth to Shout once more.

            Bjarni took a deep breath as it breathed more fire and leapt on its back, running up its spine to the neck. “Hold fast, men, hold fast!” he commanded. “Keep its attention on you.”

            “Hiding will not save you!” the dragon taunted, trying to turn, which only opened up its side to Ralof’s shock-enchanted warhammer. When it snaked its head back around to the sun-blond hearthman, Bjarni struck with his steel war axe, aiming for the join of neck and skull.

            It roared in pain and tried to snap at him, but he danced back along its spine and Ralof buried his warhammer into its shoulder. The bulky beast couldn’t contort its body enough to strike him or Ralof, as they timed their attacks when one was being snapped at. The other survivors had grimly flanked the beast and were breaking its wings.

            Things went downhill for the dragon from there. By the time it was a bloody wreck, the black dragon had flown off. How was that for loyalty? Its final cry was “Dovahkiin, niid!”

            Then Bjarni fell off the skeleton as it collapsed into a fiery pile of bones, its soul spiralling in on him, filling his body with power. He remembered the words his father once spoke into the floor, showing his power of the Thu’um, and Shouted “FUS!”

            Ralof forgave Bjarni for Shouting him arse over teat almost instantly. The Greybeards called for him shortly after that.

            Bjarni was the prophesised saviour of the world. He was certain it was some kind of practical joke played by the gods, but who’d listen? Not the gods, that was for certain.

            Overwhelmed, he collapsed.


	6. The Voice of Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Falkreath, Morthal and the Reach are the weirdness magnets of Skyrim and I blame the Forsworn. Playing around with the look of the Masque of Clavicus Vile to make it more like the helmet of Loki in the MCU.

 

Callaina limped into Falkreath with Sinding’s lupine head in one hand, the Oathblade of Acilius Bolar on her hip, and wearing the Saviour’s Hide with scavenged hide bracers and boots. Mathies and his wife Indara lived at Corpselight Farm, so she made her way there and knocked on the door. The farmer opened, his brown eyes widening. “Jarl Callaina, is that…?”

            “Sinding’s head. Hircine wasn’t too happy with him either,” Callaina replied as she dropped the head at his feet. “Did Rayya and the others get back safely?”

            “Yeah, with some white stag hide.” The half-Redguard farmer smiled grimly at the head. “I’ll pike that at the gates tomorrow, my Jarl. Don’t trouble yourself with that carrion anymore.”

            “I appreciate it.” Callaina rubbed the back of her neck. “I know it won’t bring Lavinia back, but…”

            “But she’s avenged,” Mathies said firmly. “You’ve got me and Indara’s loyalty, my Jarl.”

            “Thank you,” she said softly.

            He smiled again and closed the door. Callaina limped towards the longhouse. She wasn’t used to walking so much for so long.

            “Hey, Jarl Callaina!” Lod called out from his smithy. “Did you see the dog on the road? I’ve a mind to make it a pet!”

            “No, I didn’t,” she replied. Lod had been her grandfather’s huscarl.

            “If you do, lure it in for me? I can make you something to go with that cuirass of yours.”

            “Sure.” Callaina nodded and continued towards the longhouse. Sometimes she wondered if she was the Jarl or an errand runner.

            Nenya was still awake when she entered the longhouse. “You made it,” the womer said in relief. “That armour…?”

            “Saviour’s Hide, made from Sinding’s skin,” Callaina admitted as she kicked off the thong-wrapped leather boots. She had blisters the size of Lake Rumare. “Is Rayya okay?”

            “She’s fine. The wound was wide but shallow. She’ll be back on duty within a few days.” The Altmer looked at the lamp and a small flame blossomed to light the room. “Many Kreathlings give at least lip service to Hircine. Earning Saviour’s Hide will gain you a lot of respect.”

            “Thadgeir mentioned some old hunt law. I’m all for respecting tradition, but…”

            “Traditionally speaking, the Hunt Law is a code of conduct followed by most hunters. Hunt sparingly, kill cleanly, use every part of the animal, respect nature and your fellow hunters. Taking a troop of guards to Bloated Man’s Grotto would have violated it… but Thadgeir, at least, should have gone with you.” Nenya’s mouth tightened. “He’s been depressed since his husband Berit died. Maybe you could talk to him?”

            “Sure, why not? Apparently Jarl here is dog finder and grief counsellor.” Callaina rested her forehead against the cool wood of the wall and sighed. “I’m sorry, Nenya. I shouldn’t have said that.”

            “I understand. Things haven’t let up for you since Helgen. If it’s any consolation, you’ve done more good for Falkreath in the week since you’ve arrived than Siddgeir did during his entire reign.”

            “From what I gather, that wasn’t hard. I’m surprised he died from fishbone, not poisoning.”

            “None of us could afford the Brotherhood fee,” Nenya said wryly. “Thank Kynareth for a poorly deboned salmon.”

            “Salmon?” Callaina shook her head. “They weren’t kidding when they said he was living extravagantly.”

            “Salmon is a common fish in Skyrim,” Nenya said quietly. “It was the silks, jewels and Black-Briar mead that did it.”

            Callaina went to the silver decanter and poured herself some mead. Nenya didn’t drink anything alcoholic, preferring the sweet-sharp taste of snowberry tea. “Any word back from the merchants?”

            “Yes, and they’re insisting on full payment. Given that many of them are likely agents of the Thalmor, the Empire or the Stormcloaks, I’m not particularly surprised.”

            “If my cousin wasn’t already dead, I think I’d throttle him myself,” Callaina said flatly after a swig of mead.

            “On that, we agree.”

            “I’ll talk to Thadgeir and look for Lod’s bloody mutt tomorrow,” Callaina promised. “We’ll figure out how to deal with the merchants… and their masters.”

            “Good,” Nenya said. “Falkreath has been the plaything of several powers for too long.”

            After a good night’s sleep, Callaina awoke later than usual. For some reason, she put on the Saviour’s Hide and the rough hide boots, buckling the Oathblade over it, before going over to the Dead Man’s Drink where everyone ate. In a town as small as Falkreath, many meals were communal. Only Dengeir ate apart and everyone put that down to his paranoid dementia.

            “Nenya told me you lost your husband recently,” she said to Thadgeir as she sat down next to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have excused you from the hunt for Sinding.”

            “Why would you care?” Thadgeir asked bitterly. “You’re just an Imperial puppet like Siddgeir.”

            “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Mathies said from the end of the table. “Callaina avenged my Lavinia where you didn’t. She even promised to find that dog Lod wanted. She gives more of a damn than Siddgeir or Dengeir!”

            “I…” Thadgeir looked down, flushing, and pulled a small ceramic urn from his pouch. “Berit’s ashes. I should have had him laid to rest by Runil but… I couldn’t let him go.”

            “I’ll take it to him,” Callaina said, swallowing a sigh. Jarl was definitely Nord for ‘gofer’.

            “Thank you!” Thadgeir pressed the urn into her hands. “You’re a good girl, even if you’re an Imperial puppet.”

            Runil was only happy to take Berit’s ashes. He was an elderly Altmer who admitted to being a Thalmor sorcerer during the Great War. “What I did was wrong. What they do is wrong. The gods bound themselves to this world because they love us.”

            Callaina chose not to make a big deal about it, instead nodding and making her farewells. The Blades had their share of atrocities, as did the Legion and no doubt the Stormcloaks. Most people in power were selfish arseholes.

            She picked up a bit of venison from Kust and went outside the walls. Sure enough, there was a shaggy dog sitting by the road. “Hear, puppy, puppy, puppy,” she coaxed.

            “You know, that’s just insulting,” the dog said. “Champion of Hircine, eh? Well, maybe you can talk some sense into my master Clavicus Vile.”

            “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

…

On discovering he was Dragonborn, Bjarni’s mother had emerged from her quarters, thrown him on the first horse she saw and sent him with Ralof in the general direction of Ivarstead. Everyone was very impressed that one of their own was the prophesised saviour of the world but Bjarni got a strong sense of ‘learn some Imperial-killing Shouts so we can win the war for Skyrim’ from Sigdrifa. She said little about Ulfric and showed less emotion. He knew she wasn’t sentimental, but in Talos’ name, you’d think she’d show some sign of grief.

            So Bjarni rode to Ivarstead as expected. He wasn’t expecting his newly found sister to be staying at the inn, accompanied by a dog and a Redguard woman, wearing a wolf-emblazoned cuirass that reeked of power. “Is Falkreath cursed?” Callaina was asking the Redguard in Yokudan. “First Hircine and now Clavicus Vile’s talking pet dog. Is Sanguine going to walk into the pub next?”

            “Probably,” said the dog. “Especially if he sees you in that armour.”

            Callaina scowled at the dog.

            “We just need to get the Rueful Axe from Rimerock Barrow to the north,” the Redguard said quietly. “Maybe find Lod a wolfhound puppy on the way home.”

            Ralof cleared his throat. “What are you doing in the Rift, Callaina? Shouldn’t you be in Falkreath?”

            “Falkreath is apparently cursed with the attentions of multiple Daedric Princes,” Callaina said flatly. “I spoke to Hircine two days ago and now I’m chasing a bloody axe so Clavicus Vile can get his bloody canine conscience back.”

            “It could be worse,” said canine conscience observed. “You could be the Dragonborn and have every dragon in Skyrim trying to kill you.”

            “Like I needed to be reminded of that,” Bjarni said sourly. “ _Three_ of the fucking bastard lizards on the way here.”

            “You’re welcome,” the dog said smugly.

            Bjarni was beginning to sympathise with Clavicus Vile.

            “You’re the Dragonborn?” Callaina asked.

            “Apparently so. Mother couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.” Bjarni sat down at his sister’s table, nodding to the Redguard.

            “Rayya, meet my maternal half-brother Bjarni and his friend Ralof. You two, this is Rayya, my huscarl.” Callaina made the introductions wearily. There were some fresh scars on her bare arms and legs. A few old ones too, particularly on the backs of the thighs.

            “Nice armour,” Ralof drawled.

            “It’s called Saviour’s Hide and my Jarl is the Champion of Hircine,” Rayya answered coolly. “She hunted, killed and skinned a werewolf on her own.”

            “He’d eaten a child,” Callaina said softly. Bjarni noticed that a katana was slung across her back. “Then he temporarily turned me into a werewolf.”

            Ralof’s eyes widened. “The Old Hunt? Damn woman. _Companions_ have died during that.”

            “It’s an experience I’d rather not repeat,” Callaina said tartly. “I’m none too bloody happy trailing this mutt either. I’m supposed to be taking care of Falkreath, not running errands for Daedra!”

            “You could have told Lod to get his own dog,” the mutt pointed out.

            “Annoying, isn’t he?” Rayya observed.

            “Nearly as much as Egil,” Bjarni said wryly. “It’s like someone took our brother and turned him into a dog.”

            Callaina took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So you’re off to High Hrothgar?”

            “Yeah. Mother practically threw me on a horse.”

            “I’m… not surprised. I guess she’ll have plenty for you to do while she runs things in Windhelm.”

            There were shades of meaning in Callaina’s words that troubled Bjarni. He sensed she was trying to warn him again. Was Sigdrifa so power-hungry that she’d actively keep Bjarni away from a leadership role in the Stormcloaks?

            “I told the Stormcloaks in Falkreath to support you,” Bjarni said quietly. “That was a neat trick with the taxes.”

            “I was a tax official,” Callaina said dryly. “I know a few loopholes.”

            “When we win the war, your knowledge of bureaucracy could be useful,” Ralof said.

            “You’re going to fight the Legion and the dragons at the same time?” Callaina asked. “I think you’ll find you’ll lose both wars.”

            “We’ll be fighting the Legion in between the dragons,” Bjarni said. “It’s not like we have a blueprint to defeating Alduin.”

            Callaina went very still. “You don’t. But the Blades did. Sky Haven Temple, in the Reach. It holds all the knowledge that the Akaviri Dragonguard ever collected on the dragons in general and Alduin himself.”

            “Do you know where in the Reach?” Bjarni asked eagerly.

            “No. But it’ll be on a mountain and have a distinct outline. The Akaviri always built their temples on hills or mountains.” Callaina sighed again. “I don’t have a lot of Akaviri. I wish Esbern were alive. He was the old dragonlore expert.”

            Bjarni reached over and squeezed his sister’s hand. “ _You_ worry about Falkreath. _I’ll_ worry about the dragons. You’ve already helped me more than you realise.”

            Callaina’s expression was sombre. “This isn’t a fairy tale, Bjarni. People will die, no matter your choices. Are you prepared to live with that?”

            “Yes.” He had the power of a dragon. How hard would the war be?


	7. What's Right is Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Barbas reports you for stealing. He’s an arsehole like that.

 

It took four days of walking, casting Clairvoyance and swearing vociferously in every language she knew for Callaina to find Rimerock Burrow. It was tucked up on the coast of Skyrim, which meant she was probably in Haafingar Hold by now, and located in some of the most desolate terrain she’d ever seen. Rayya had never been this far north and Barbas told her Sebastian Lort became a recluse after killing his werewolf daughter with the Rueful Axe. Clavicus Vile’s sense of humour was… vile.

            “Is that language necessary?” the dog asked as they approached the cave.

            “I’m beginning to understand why Vile kicked you out,” Rayya muttered.

            So was Callaina, but she wouldn’t say it out loud. Barbas huffed and ran up to the entrance.

            Inside the cavern, a Flame Atronach stood guard. Rayya unlimbered her bow and shot it from concealment, the Conjured creature bursting into flame and melting some of the ice. They crept past the remains and Callaina scooped up what fire salts she could find. The ingredient sold well.

            Sebastian Lort was in the next room, focused on making something at the alchemy table. Callaina waved at the others to stay where they were and snuck deeper into the cavern. The Rueful Axe, a double-headed ebony battleaxe emblazoned with wolf heads, lay on a table not too far from him. Callaina sidled over and grabbed it quietly.

            Barbas howled at that point, alerting Sebastian. Callaina fell over trying to pick up the Axe and dodging the Breton’s fireball. He raised his hands to cast more fire… and toppled forward, an arrow in his back. Thank the gods Rayya was an archer.

            “What the hell is wrong with you?” Callaina demanded of Barbas once on her feet.

            “You were stealing the Axe,” the mutt replied. “Stealing is wrong.”

            “So is killing people! I could have gotten that axe out quietly and a fairly innocent man wouldn’t be dead now!” Callaina threw her hands up in the air. “Sometimes, just sometimes, you have to do a little sin to avoid a greater one.”

            “Stealing is wrong,” Barbas insisted.

            “Rayya,” Callaina said in a tight voice, “Please take the axe from me before I kill this fucking mutt.”

            The huscarl obeyed, slinging the Rueful Axe across her back with her bow.

            They were coming down from the Burrow towards the coast when a line of prisoners came along, escorted by Thalmor agents in their gold-trimmed black. One of them was gagged, blindfolded and bound hand and foot, being dragged by a Cathay-raht Khajiit, but she knew Ulfric. Callaina swore. Then she swore some more when she realised two of the prisoners were brothers from Falkreath, Solaf and Bolund.

            “Language!” Barbas hissed.

            “Twelve prisoners, each connected by ankle chains,” Rayya murmured. “If we would kill the Khajiit at each end of the line, one tug would free them.”

            “Not a word,” Callaina hissed to the dog. “These people are being dragged to torture and soul trapping because those bastards in the black and gold made their god illegal. Two of them are my own people. The duty of the Jarl supersedes the duty to the law.”

            Rayya removed her bow once more. It was a Yokudan recurve, more than capable of punching through corundum-banded steel. “We’ll only get one shot, my Jarl. Targets?”

            “How many shots can you make in thirty heartbeats?”

            “Two.”

            “Then take out the Khajiit at the beginning and end of the line. My Telekinesis can undo the ankle chains. After that, focus on the agents.”

            “I’ll take on the Cathay-raht,” Barbas said. “What they’re doing is wrong.”

            “Thank fuck for a miracle,” Rayya muttered. “On three, my Jarl.”

            On a count of three, they burst from cover, arrows and Barbas flying straight and true. Callaina yanked the ankle chain off by main force, the rust-pitted iron snapping, and whipped the loose end around the feet of the nearest Thalmor agent. She tripped and one of the prisoners slammed a rock into her head.

            The two Khajiit guards had fallen but the Cathay-raht was holding his own against Barbas. The dog was empowered, it was true, but he was still limited by an animal’s form. Aside from three agents, there were four Justicar guards in their moonstone armour. Callaina cast Stoneflesh and drew her katana. This was stupid but there were Kreathlings in the prisoner line she had to rescue,

            “Somebody get Ulfric’s blindfold and gag off!” she ordered before she engaged the nearest wizard.

            “I’ll do it!” Solaf yelled.

            The world coalesced into a bloody melee where she slashed out with the katana, its quicksilver edge catching and finding the littlest flaw in the elven armour. Where she wasn’t slashing, she was throwing fire in a golden face or dodging lightning that crawled over her skin. Then she fell and a sun-yellow sword came for her face-

            “FUS RO DAH!”

            The elf… disintegrated. Literally turned into dust and blew away on the stiff sea breeze. Callaina Telekinetically pulled her Oathblade to her and rolled to avoid the bite of an elven battleaxe. She rose to her feet and saw Rayya being pressed by a wizard, so she reversed her grip on the katana and threw it like a spear. Miracle of miracles it struck the Thalmor, distracting him long enough to be decapitated by Rayya. Bolund grabbed her katana and began to hew into the still-fighting Cathay-raht like he was chopping down a stubborn pine tree.

            Then it was over. Callaina looked around and saw six or seven dead prisoners, most of the rest injured, and not a single breathing Thalmor. Aside from a limp and bruises, she’d come out alright.

            Bolund was kneeling by Solaf, whose bloody lips said it all. Callaina limped over to the two men. She didn’t save this one.

            “Jarl.” Solaf’s voice was weak. “Thought you’d… run away.”

            “Lod’s dog turned out to be a spirit that’s led me on a wild goose chase all over Skyrim,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

            “For what? You saved me… from Thalmor. Go to Sovngarde.”

            Bolund squeezed his brother’s hand. “Save a seat for me, near to Ysgramor as you can get.”

            “Will do. Bjarni said… Jarl had steel in her. He was right.” Solaf closed his eyes. “Is that mead I smell?”

            He was dead.

            “I’m sorry, Bolund,” Callaina said softly. “What happened?”

            “Day after you and Rayya went with that dog, the Thalmor came for me an’ Solaf,” Bolund said, wiping his eyes.

            “I’m sorry, Bolund,” Barbas said with a sigh. “I needed your Jarl’s help. There were vampires in Haemar’s Shame.”

            “Goin’ from werewolves to vampires, huh?” Amazingly, Bolund laughed wearily. He rose to his feet with the help of a muscular man whose white hair belied his youthful features. “You saved me and Solaf from a fate worse’n death. I’m your man, Jarl.”

            “A week and a half from Helgen and you’re saving Stormcloaks,” Ulfric observed.

            “I wasn’t saving Stormcloaks, Ulfric. I was trying to save two Kreathlings from the Thalmor,” Callaina corrected.

            “Loyalty to the Empire isn’t saving your people, Callaina,” Ulfric replied. “But I am grateful. Know that Windhelm stands in your debt.”

            “You better hurry home then,” Callaina suggested. She’d let Bjarni break the news of being Dragonborn to his father. “Mother’s running around without adult supervision.”

            Ulfric’s smile was thin. “What do you remember of her?”

            “Enough.” She nodded to Rayya, Bolund and Barbas. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be around for when Elenwen finds out her latest collection of toys went missing.”

            They set fire to the dead prisoners as a farewell and scattered in different directions. It was all they could do.

…

“Ugh. That insufferable pup? Forget it. Request denied. No deal. I'm glad to be rid of him. Even if it does mean I'm stuck in this pitiful shrine, in the back end of... nowhere.”

            Jarl Callaina shrugged. “Then rot for all I care. One less Daedric Prince to meddle in Nirn is a blessing so far as I’m concerned. I brought the Rueful Axe to you. You don’t want it and the mutt, well, the Axe’ll make a nice adornment to my longhouse and Barbas can spend the rest of his days being spoilt by our resident blacksmith.”

            “I’m immortal,” the dog barked. “But it would be nice to be appreciated.”

            Bolund had been born and bred in Falkreath Hold in the wake of the Great War, watching Jarl Dengeir progress from a twitchy but good ruler to outright paranoia, which was used to replace him with the indolent fop Siddgeir. After that Thalmor-loving mongrel died, he’d expected Callaina to be more of the same, except maybe a bit better with the septims. When she arrived, scorched and bloodied from Helgen, she was everything he feared. Then she hunted down the werewolf who ate Mathies’ daughter and came back clad in the beast’s own hide. Then she disappeared with Rayya and everyone figured she’d run. Then the Thalmor came.

            Then, like a blessing from on high, Callaina and Rayya came out of the mists with an immortal dog that devoured his enemies. Solaf had died after freeing Ulfric from that big cat, something Jarl Callaina called a ‘Cathay-raht’ (bigger version of the cats who ran the caravans, she said), but he’d gone to Sovngarde instead of being soul trapped. She felt bad about him dying. Bolund supposed she’d never really got to learn about Sovngarde.

            “I could destroy with a snap of my fingers!” Clavicus Vile retorted.

            Callaina held out her hand and Rayya handed her the big wolf-headed axe she’d been carrying. “You’ve halved your power by banishing Barbas and weakened it further by killing the vampires who worshipped you. Hircine’s pretty damned pissed with you over Loup Lort’s death, Vile, and I’m his Champion. You don’t think he wouldn’t strengthen my arm as I broke your little statue with the Rueful Axe? If so, you’re more deluded than I realised.”

            “You couldn’t kill me!” Vile retorted.

            “No, but I could make you little better than a Dremora, ripe for devouring by one of the greater Daedric powers.” Callaina smiled thinly. “Daedric Princes can be mantled, Vile. Just ask Sheogorath. Oh wait, you can’t. He’s Jyggalag now and the power of the Madgod rests with Aurelia Northstar, the Champion of Cyrodiil. The Madgoddess is my great-great-grandmother and I imagine she’d _love_ to see what happens if I were to smash this statue.”

            “You can’t survive without me,” Barbas said. “I’ll do fine without you though.”

            If a statue could piss itself, Bolund wagered this one would be. Callaina was the spitting image of the Stormsword in a fury, mouth tight and eyes glittering, and she had enough muscle to break the crumbling stone with an ebony battleaxe. He didn’t even realise how lean she was under the clothing she usually wore. Or that she had old scars crisscrossing the backs of her thighs. There were stronger Nords, like him, but Callaina was wiry-tough in her own way.

            “Fine!” Vile shrieked. “I’ll take back the fucking mutt!”

            “Thank HoonDing,” muttered Rayya.

            Barbas bent a reproachful look on Vile. “You owe her.”

            “I do not!” Vile protested.

            “Yes, you do. She returned your power to you. She could kill you and take your power. It might be nice to serve a Prince with _some_ conscience of her own.”

            “Fine!” The statue wrenched off its helmet, dropping it with an ungracious clang. It turned from stone to ebony, the mask part fading away to become an ebony crown with backward-curling horns like a goat’s. “Take my mask and give me back my axe.”

            Callaina leaned the axe against the statue and picked up the crown. “Your Masque is most appreciated, Lord Vile.”

            Vile’s response didn’t bear repeating. Callaina shrugged, donned the Masque, and led them all outside into the cool clean air.

            “I swear, if Sanguine’s in the pub when we get back home, I’ll run screaming into the night.”

            “Falkreath is old. We used to be ruled by the Reachmen until blessed Talos came to destroy them for King Culhecain,” Bolund explained. “I know the Forsworn used to visit some of their old sites in the north part of the Hold.”

            “My grandmother was from Lost Valley,” Callaina said quietly. “You know, the Forsworn probably aren’t that much different from the Stormcloaks. You’re both fighting for the right to worship as you please. To me, Talos is as cruel as many of the Daedric Princes. He drowned Tamriel in blood and now we’re paying for his hubris.”

            If anyone else had said that, Bolund would already be making them eat his fist. Talos was the god of men and heroes. But Jarl Callaina was part-Daedra, if he understood what she said in the cave back there. Maybe to her the Forsworn weren’t heathens but relatives. Even Bolund muttered a prayer to Hircine when he was hunting.

            “The Forsworn have some pretty dark magics,” Rayya said softly. “But Elinhir’s always had a few coming and going because of the Mages’ Academy.”

            “And Conjuration is permitted by most civilised nations,” Callaina said with a sigh. “I’m of the opinion what someone does with their soul is their own damn problem. It’s only when they try to meddle with mine that I tend to get riled.”

            “Are you really part-Daedra?” Bolund asked timidly.

            “No. The Madgoddess, according to Cyrod folklore, mantled Sheogorath _after_ Julius Martin was born. But… I’ve seen no evidence for or against the stories.” Callaina shrugged. “Maybe Vile knows something I don’t. I’m not about to ask, though. My mind’s fragile enough. Falkreath doesn’t need another demented Jarl.”

            They picked their way back to the pass which divided Falkreath from the Rift. “If any other Daedric Princes want errands run, they can find another messenger,” Callaina said fervently. “Dealing with two is more than enough for me.”

            “That’s two more than the other Jarls,” Bolund offered helpfully.

            “That’s two more than any sane person wants,” Callaina said dryly. “But it is what it is.”

            Bolund followed his Jarl home. Solaf supported her and so he’d respect his brother’s wishes. He just hoped she’d see the truth in Ulfric’s cause one day.


	8. If I Fall, Then Let Me Fall for Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Callaina, Rayya and Bolund returned to Falkreath in a thick purple twilight. The lumber mill owner had been subdued since Haemar’s Shame; capture by the Thalmor and his brother’s death had knocked much of the aggression out of him. “I’m not asking you to stop worshipping Talos,” Callaina told him quietly as they walked past Helgen. “I’m asking you to stop being so bloody _obvious_ about it.”

            Her patience for Aedra and Daedra had diminished substantially over the past week. Saviour’s Hide and the Masque of Clavicus Vile weren’t enough reward for the bullshit that she’d gone through. The next time a Daedric Prince called, she’d send them to Nenya to sort out.

            _I need to find someone to take over Solaf’s shop,_ she thought as she passed under the gate. _Maybe Thadgeir. It would get his mind off Berit._

A couple guards were going by and one of them gasped. “Jarl Callaina? We thought you were dead or missing!”

            “You see Lod, you tell him his damn dog wasn’t worth the trouble,” Callaina said wryly. “I didn’t mean to be gone for so long,”

            “The dog could talk and was a Daedric Prince’s conscience,” Bolund added. “I think our Jarl’s a throwback to the old blood.”

            “Bolund? The Thalmor took you-“

            “Jarl Callaina and Rayya saved us all,” Bolund said simply. “Solaf died in battle freeing Ulfric Stormcloak.”

            “We’re allied with…?” the guard asked carefully.

            “No. I was saving two Kreathlings from the Thalmor,” Callaina said quietly. “I don’t give a damn who you worship. It’s when your choices start affecting my soul or those of my people I get involved.”

            “Yes, my Jarl.” The guard saluted. “Aside from the Thalmor taking Bolund and Solaf, we had a Forsworn raiding party from Lost Valley. We killed a few, took the rest prisoners. We’ll leave them to your judgement.”

            “Lost Valley? Didn’t my grandmother come from there?”

            “Yes. They’ve held a grudge since Catriona left Dengeir over him sending your mother to the Shieldmaidens of Talos.” The guard shrugged. “Filthy heathens, the lot of them.”

            “Do you remember what I said about not caring who my people worshipped?” Callaina told him. “That extends to any Forsworn in the Hold, so long as they aren’t sacrificing and soul trapping people.”

            “That won’t win you friends with Jarl Ulfric,” the guard warned. “Or Dengeir. They’ve spent years haunting him, you know.”

            “To be honest, I don’t give a rat’s arse on what either of them think,” Callaina said testily. “Is this all? We’re tired. We’ve traipsed over half of fucking Skyrim in the past week following a Daedric mutt and I bluffed his owner this morning.”

            “That’s all, my Jarl.” The guard stepped aside and they went to the longhouse.

            Nenya was awake and eating a sandwich while going over some notes. “You’re back,” the womer remarked. “With the Masque of Clavicus Vile.”

            “Lod’s mutt turned out to be his conscience,” Callaina said as she pulled off the hide boots. At least the blisters were almost healed. “You haven’t truly lived until you’ve had a discussion about the morality of stealing versus killing with a Daedric dog.”

            Nenya chuckled richly. “I’ve had a run in with Clavicus Vile before. That’s how I recognise the Masque.”

            Bolund bowed awkwardly. “I better return home,” he said. “My arm and service is yours, my Jarl.”

            “Keep a low profile,” Callaina told the lumberjack.

            “If things get hot, I’ll return to the Stormcloaks. I just hope you realise you and Ulfric believe in many of the same things.” Bolund bowed again and left the longhouse.

            “We ran into a Thalmor patrol up near Northwatch Keep,” Callaina said grimly. “I’ve had the displeasure of seeing a Thalmor facility. I couldn’t allow my people to rot in one. Solaf died in the fight.”

            “No survivors?” Nenya asked calmly.

            “Not among the Thalmor,” Rayya said with a grin.

            “As your Steward, I must strongly suggest you not interfere in such matters,” Nenya said. “As a Kreathling, however, I applaud your actions.”

            “I appreciate it.” Callaina removed the Masque and dumped it on the Stag Throne. The Vigilants of Stendarr were going to have hysterics. “About these Forsworn…?”

            “The guards on the northern border swear they were raiders,” Nenya sighed. “But while they were armed and armoured, I didn’t see any of the traditional war markings. Several had the ritual woad of Nocturnal and Hircine, however. There are sacred places to both Daedric Princes – the Twilight Sepulchre and Glenmoril Cavern – in the northwest by the Reach, in the old lands they held in the Second Era.”

            “So they were visiting holy places?”

            “Probably. There might be a renegade war chief or two who used pilgrim markings to trick an enemy when they’re really raiding, but the Matriarchs – Hagravens and those ready to become Hagravens – and the Briarhearts would stamp down on it if the tactic became commonly used.”

            Callaina sighed. “Make sure they’ve been fed and given water, then get some rest. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

            It was about mid-morning before Callaina could deal with the Forsworn. Eleven survivors out of a band of twenty were dragged into the longhouse, Kreathlings jeering at them until Callaina rose to her feet. “That’s enough!”

            Because she was wearing the Masque, her voice rang with authority, and the crowd fell silent.

            The Forsworn ranged in age from mid-adolescence to maybe a few years older than her. All were clad in scanty armour of leather and fur trimmed with bone and teeth, the oldest among them wearing what looked like a bird’s skull on her headdress, and blue patterns swirled around their faces and bodies. Most were Breton but she could see two Nords. It was said the Reachfolk were as much Breton as they were Nord.

            “From what my Steward tells me, you’re wearing the marks of religious pilgrims, not raiders,” Callaina said to the eldest Forsworn. “I’m told they’re for Nocturnal and Hircine?”

            “Why are you asking them questions?” her grandfather Dengeir demanded. “Just kill the heathens already!”

            “You had over thirty years to try and you couldn’t catch a one-legged Hag with a crutch, let alone the rest of us,” the Forsworn retorted. “You can’t kill us, your precious Ulfric and the Empire couldn’t kill us, and our prophecies tell us we will regain the Reach in a time of dragons. Look what’s in the sky, old man. _You will never see Sovngarde._ ”

            Dengeir drew his knife and went for the Forsworn. Except that Callaina Telekinetically lifted her grandfather from the ground as he leapt and sent him sailing to the other side of the longhouse, dropping him gently into a chair. It was always easiest to use someone’s momentum in a situation like this.

            “Bolund, Mathies, can you please make sure the Thane remains seated?” Callaina asked with a sigh.

            “Yes, my Jarl.” The lumberjack and the farmer flanked Dengeir and put a hand on each of his shoulders, keeping him in the chair.

            Callaina turned back to the Forsworn. “I would appreciate you not taunting my people, however much you dislike them. I don’t know if Reachmen go to Sovngarde, but I have no plans to send anyone there today.”

            “Only Nords go to Sovngarde,” Bolund told her. “Your mother didn’t teach you a lot, my Jarl.”

            “I’m pretty sure my mother wished she’d never had me,” Callaina said with another sigh. “But that’s neither here nor there.”

            “It isn’t a taunt, Matriarch, but a promise,” the Forsworn said quietly. “It was the promise Catriona made when her daughter was sent to the Thief-God’s battle-women in blatant disregard for the agreement between Lost Valley and Stag Crown clans. That’s your clan, if you’re wondering.”

            “My mother is the Stormsword,” Callaina admitted. “Why do you call Talos the Thief-God?”

            “Because he stole the power of Shor Dead-King,” one of the Forsworn Nords rumbled. “We don’t deny his divinity, we just know he stole it.”

            Callaina rubbed her forehead. It was true in a way. “As I understand it, every so often the universe spits out a Shezzarine to act as a focus for Shor/Lorkhan’s power. Pelineal Whitestrake, Reman Cyrodiil, Wulfharth, Talos, so on and so forth. They’re mostly human, males and arseholes.”

            “It’s more complicated than that,” Nenya added. “But… that’s fairly accurate. If the Shezzarine ever fails, the world will end.”

            “As we said, we don’t deny his divinity,” the Forsworn repeated.

            Callaina sighed. “Getting back to the point, were you just going to the sacred sites? Nenya knows a truth spell, so we’ll know if you’re lying.”

            The oldest Forsworn drew herself up. “Matriarch, I swear by Nocturnal’s Shadowcloak and Hircine’s Horns that we were taking the young ones to the holy sites for their rite of passage.”

            “They poached one of your deer, my Jarl,” reported a guard. “That’s how we found them.”

            “You’re telling me that you killed nine people who weren’t causing any trouble over a _fucking_ _deer_?” Callaina asked in disbelief.

            “They don’t have the right to hunt in our Hold,” the guard said stubbornly.

            “You don’t have the right to our silver but that’s never stopped Dengeir from raiding Lost Valley in the past,” retorted the oldest Forsworn.

            “You raid our northbound caravans!” shot back the guard.

            “Because you burned our crops two years ago!”

            “ENOUGH!” Callaina held up her hand to silence the two.

            She rose to her feet and climbed down from the Stag Throne. “I can’t bring back the dead Reachfolk and Kreathlings who have died because of some marital feud gone out of control.”

            “She cursed me, Callaina,” Dengeir shouted from his seat. “I can’t even believe you sympathise with the Forsworn!”

            “A group of people hunted down for what they believed, their traditions banned and their survivors treated like shit because they lost a war and launched a rebellion?” Callaina asked acidly. “Sound familiar? Because that’s what happened to the Blades and their relatives. The Akaviri ways are almost dead and much of the knowledge that could be needed by the Dragonborn has been lost. How long, old man, must a people pay for the sins of their parents?”

            “They’re cannibals,” Bolund said. “I seen them.”

            “We eat our dead to honour them! How else will Namira be able to break down their bodies to give the land strength to grow the food which strengthens the clan? Decay is part of life. We die, we are eaten, and we are reborn.” The Reachwoman looked genuinely confused at the outrage.

            Callaina inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “The Bosmer eat the meat of those they’ve killed, no matter the species. I suppose ritual cannibalism isn’t too different, so long as they stick to their own damned kind. If I were to allow access to these sacred sites in return for Lost Valley not raiding or haunting us, would your leaders agree to it?”

            “The curse on Dengeir can’t be retracted. Matriarch Catriona’s made sure of _that_ ,” the Forsworn leader replied quietly. “It would take another Matriarch making a compelling case for her to remove it.”

            “As I said before, I’m the Stormsword’s daughter, and therefore her granddaughter.” It was a strange thing to consider that she had a living grandparent who was probably in her seventies or eighties, unless she’d become a vampire or Hagraven. “Callaina of Stag Crown Clan is asking Matriarch Catriona of Lost Valley Clan to retract the curse and stop the raiding. In return, I will allow free access to the sacred sites in the north of Falkreath Hold, so long as none of my people are harmed without cause and you follow the old Hunt Law of Hircine. Does this sound fair?”

            “Are you _sure_ she’s a Nord?” one of the Forsworn muttered to another.

            “It’s the old blood in her,” was the reply. “That’s Saviour’s Hide she’s wearing, you idiot.”

            “I can take the message but make no promises,” the Reachwoman replied. “At the very least, we’d like compensation for our dead pilgrims.”

            “She’s letting you go with your lives,” Bolund rumbled. “Be grateful.”

            “It’s a fair request, Bolund. Anyone, man, mer or beastman, will be counted under the law of Falkreath Hold as Nords, so long as they comport themselves with honour and respect. That means they have right to wergild.” Callaina pursed her lips. “There’s a mine near the Whiterun border called Embershard. Your people have the free right to mine there for iron without tithe for the next six moons. My late cousin left us a bit lean in the pockets, so that’s the best I can offer.”

            “I’ll carry your proposal to _my_ Matriarch. She isn’t as invested in the feud as Catriona, so maybe she’ll be able to persuade her where others can’t.” The Forsworn sighed. “I am Kaie mac Aine.”

            “Aurelia Callaina.” She drew her iron dagger and began to cut bonds. “Take your dead and leave freely, without harm to kin or kine.”

            “You’ll regret this,” Dengeir warned. “You can’t trust the Forsworn.”

            “I’m going to take a chance on hope, not paranoia,” Callaina said softly. “If I fall for that, then let me fall.”


	9. The Dragon of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Hjaalmarch is a weird bog full of weird bog people,” Bjarni complained as he sloshed through the swamps surrounding Morthal. “Why Jurgen Windcaller chose to be buried here is beyond me.”

            “They say the Hjaalmarchers are related to the Reachmen,” Ralof said. “Are we stopping in Morthal?”

            “No. I don’t need any more fucking prophecies in my life and Idgrod Ravencrone’s full of them.” He sniffed the breeze. Woodsmoke, marsh and… horker fat. “I think we’re near the Stormcloak camp. Let’s go there.”

            Arrald Frozen-Heart used to be a hunter before he became a commander and his knowledge of the swamps allowed him to camouflage the camp. Even with the unique fragrance of the horker fat lamps used by most Stormcloaks in their kits giving Bjarni some guidance, they didn’t find the Hjaalmarch camp until they were practically on it. There were more people than Bjarni expected in the camp, most of them wounded and in rags. The worst were in the healer’s tent.

            “Liberated prisoners,” Arrald said laconically. “The Thalmor were taking them to Northwatch Keep when the Jarl of Falkreath, her huscarl and some Daedric dog ambushed the patrol because there were Kreathlings in it.”

            “That fucking dog,” Bjarni and Ralof said in unison.

            “You’ve met them?”  
            “At Helgen, then Ivarstead,” Bjarni explained. “Callaina’s position is… complicated. She has no reason to love either the Stormcloaks or the Empire.”

            “I think Idgrod’s a bit like that herself. Most of the minor Jarls are thinking of their Holds and the drain of war, not the necessity of liberating Skyrim from the Empire.” Arrald shrugged. “I’ll take you to Thorald Grey-Mane. He can fill you in on the lost and wounded.”

            Thorald was in the healer’s tent beside a groaning figure, only the baritone rumble revealing it to be Ulfric Stormcloak. “Gut wound,” the Grey-Mane scion explained succinctly. “He didn’t tell anyone until we were away from the coast.”

            “Father.” Bjarni knelt beside the pallet. “Do we have any healers?”

            “Of the kind who can heal an infected gut wound? They’re all in Solitude.” Thorald’s craggy face was drawn. “He wouldn’t survive the journey to Windhelm.”

            “And I know no spells of healing.” Bjarni closed his eyes. “Or Shouts.”

            “Alduin… followed you.” Ulfric’s voice was breathy and pained. “Greybeards?”

            “I’m going to Ustengrav now,” Bjarni assured him. “Father…”

            “Hi los Dovahkiin.” Ulfric’s voice broke on the last syllable.

            “Geh,” he confirmed in Dovahzul.

            Ulfric coughed out something that could be a chuckle. “Does… your mother know?”

            “Yes. She couldn’t send me to High Hrothgar fast enough.” Bjarni picked up a rag, dipped it in water, and wiped his father’s forehead. “I have to focus on the dragons for a bit. Then I can turn my Voice towards the freedom of Skyrim.”

            Ulfric shook his head weakly. “Your mother… loves power. I… balanced her. You… must take… command. Become Jarl. Jorleif and Ralof… can manage. But Sigdrifa… Callaina warned me.”

            “My Jarl, are you saying the Stormsword is a danger to us?” Ralof asked, low and urgent.

            “Always has been. On leash until now.” Ulfric’s sigh was heavy. “Galmar will kill her… if he can… before joining me.”

            “I’ll see it done if he can’t,” Ralof promised softly.

            “Could always count… on you.” Ulfric reached up and touched Bjarni’s face. “Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

            Even in a dying whisper, the rumble of the Thu’um rattled the tent.

            “You… are… Ysmir now, Dragon of the North… Hearken to it.”

            With those words, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, the first battle-Tongue since the days of Jurgen Windcaller, passed from life into legend. Bjarni lifted his head up and wailed from the grief and the glory, the power and the pain, the burden and the blessing.

…

“So you’re telling me the woman everyone claimed would be a good pick to safeguard our interests in Falkreath has two Daedric artefacts, a working relationship with the southern Forsworn and the allegiance of many people in the Hold.” General Tullius set aside the paperwork and eyed Rikke sourly. “What was the _bad_ news again?”

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson is the Dragonborn,” Rikke reported grimly. “If we stop him, the world ends. But if he takes the reins of the Stormcloak rebellion as Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, dozens if not hundreds of our own Nord troops will desert. Shor, Wulfharth, Talos… Ysmir is at the heart of our legends, even more revered than Ysgramor himself. Only Kyne and Shor stand higher in the traditional Nord religion… And even the most Imperialised Nord in Skyrim follows the folk traditions.”

            “That’s… not quite true, with all respect.” Hadvar spoke up on the heels of Rikke’s response. “The Talosites have been persecuting the followers of the old ways with the full sanction of Sigdrifa Stormsword. With a little support thrown to Torgeir and his people, we could split the Old Holds in two while not directly interfering with Bjarni Ulfricsson until he’s defeated Alduin.”

            “Keep them too busy squabbling among themselves to unite under Bjarni? I don’t like it, but I wasn’t expecting dragons.” Tullius pinched his nose. He thought this prophecy was a load of hogwash… but Rikke’s information was too accurate. The gods making the get of a goddamn traitor a prophesised hero was the last thing he needed right now. “Callaina’s the more immediate threat.”

            “She hasn’t done anything illegal yet,” Rikke said firmly. “If you move on Falkreath without proof, that might just drive her and Balgruuf to the Stormcloaks. Using a tax loophole isn’t illegal, General, and Siddgeir left a lot of debts Callaina has to pay.”

            “I was promised a docile puppet not unlike Elisif,” Tullius said bluntly. “Instead we have a clever, even cunning bureaucrat who managed to outtalk _Clavicus Vile_.”

            “We should retake and fortify Neugrad,” Rikke suggested. “Falkreath is small but it’s strategic. I know the Stormcloaks have a camp in there somewhere, but we haven’t found it. But if we flood the roads and forts with troops, we’ll flush them out.”

            “If I pull troops from Morthal, Ulfric will just march into Whiterun,” Tullius pointed out. “Balgruuf’s now using the dragons as an excuse for his continuing neutrality.”

            “Get some from Cyrodiil. Plenty of fat-arse Bruma troops in need of a good march,” Hadvar suggested. “If Falkreath falls, County Bruma’s in trouble anyway.”

            “True.” Tullius sighed. “Maybe I’m being unfair to Callaina. But she’s the daughter and granddaughter of traitors. I have to be wary.”

            “It’s one thing to be wary, General, quite another to make an enemy of someone who’s loyal because of suspicion,” Rikke said quietly. “Nords aren’t always sensible and Callaina might be Cyrod-raised, but she’s proven over the past few weeks to have the heart of a Nord. Bjarni’s the kind of man who’ll reach out to his sister and when you remember she’s been very lonely and abused for most of her life…”

            “Ralof’s probably made no bones about the fact he’d find her very attractive,” Hadvar added sourly. “He’s one of those stereotypically handsome Nords and has never failed to charm a woman yet.”

            Tullius suspected there was a personal grudge on Hadvar’s end but he chose to say nothing. “So you’re saying we should find her a husband?”

            “Someone she can respect and care for, if not love,” Rikke replied. “We all know the Emperor spent a good deal time taking out his anger at the Aurelii on her. We’ve got have a competent ex-Legion officer or bureaucrat, preferably Nord, around somewhere. Let’s try the carrot instead of the stick.”

            Why couldn’t Nords keep politics and war separated properly like civilised people? The nobility were even more incestuous up here than they were in High Rock. But Rikke had a point or three. Titus Mede should have won Callaina’s loyalty by being kind to her, not destroying her career and life. “We might as well keep an eye out for Elisif too. She needs to marry and have children once the mourning period for Torygg was over.”

            “I was thinking that too.” Rikke’s mouth pursed. “Idolaf Battle-Born’s around Callaina’s age. Blond, reasonably handsome, cousin to Jarl Balgruuf, ex-Legion. For Elisif, we could suggest Balgruuf’s brother Hrongar. Hint that Balgruuf would have more influence in how Skyrim’s governed…”

            “And he might just join up. Run it by Elisif at the appropriate time.” Tullius scratched his chin. “The Battle-Borns are loyalists, even if they did try to get Thorald Grey-Mane out of Legion custody.”

            “I think the younger generation are exasperated with the elders of both clans,” Rikke said. “Jon and Olfina are in love, Alfhild thinks the feud’s ridiculous, and Idolaf _did_ try to help Thorald.”

            “Thorald was one of Ulfric’s lackeys.” Tullius shook his head. “Send a letter to Balgruuf with all the usual bullshit. Exaggerate if you must.”

            Rikke saluted and Tullius returned it. Why couldn’t all Nords be as sensible as these two? Hadvar even thought like a Colovian at times.

            He had to win Skyrim back for the Empire or they’d all die. If push came to shove and the Stormcloaks were winning… Well, better the world end than fall into the hands of the Thalmor.

            He wouldn’t tell Rikke that. She wouldn’t understand.


	10. Assumptions of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of imprisonment and corpse desecration.

 

Callaina felt naked without Saviour’s Hide, but she’d chosen to don a plain homespun dress from Solaf’s stock today, leaving the werewolf-hide armour behind with the Masque of Clavicus Vile. It was harvest week and everyone in Falkreath-town dropped everything to help Mathies and Indara bring in the crops for winter. Unlike most Holds, Falkreath didn’t have a slaughter-season as most of its meat came from game, everything from the ever-present venison to wolf and bear. The furs a churl flung on her straw-stuffed mattress in winter would fetch extraordinary prices in the Imperial City or the glittering courts of High Rock. The Hold produced fine furs, timber and had both iron and orichalcum mines. It shouldn’t be limping along from debt to debt, Jarl to Jarl, crisis to crisis.

            They’d just harvested the cabbages for pickling and were about to get started on the potatoes when one of the guards approached. “Jarl Callaina,” he reported. “Valdr, Niels and Ari have gone missing.”

            “And they are?” Callaina asked, dusting off her hands.

            “Oh! I didn’t realise you didn’t know them. They’re hunters who live together. They tend to track game and live on the land in summer, but they’re always back by harvest to settle down for the winter.”

            “That’s not like them,” Rayya agreed. “My Jarl, those three are as dependable as Dwemer automatons. If we can spare a couple people, we should definitely investigate.”

            Callaina took a deep breath. “Do you have anything that they’ve used? It’s not as good as hair or blood, but I should be able to scry them.”

            The guard picked their cottage door and returned with some furs. “Their sleeping furs. They’re, um, together. All three of them.”

            “So long as they’re happy, I suppose…” Callaina cast Clairvoyance on the furs and a blue-white line of light appeared to the north. “Okay, at least one of them is alive. Get, oh, three guards. I’ll get changed and we’ll go investigate.”

            “Yes, my Jarl.” The guard saluted and Callaina sighed.

            “Nenya, sorry to leave the harvest to you-“

            “Don’t be.” The womer’s mouth quirked. “Though when we’re done with the debts, I want to hire a court wizard. Our Jarl can’t be running off every time someone goes missing.”

            “I agree with that.” Callaina raised a hand to everyone. “When the harvest’s done, breach a keg of ale from my cellars. Siddgeir’s already put us in debt, so we might as well use it.”

            “Yes, my Jarl,” Nenya smiled.

            An hour later, they were trudging through the woods, Callaina clad once more in Saviour’s Hide. “A month ago, I wouldn’t be running off to save some hunters in the woods,” she told Rayya. “I’d be calling for the Imperial Rangers to do it.”

            “Hircine’s left his mark on you,” the Redguard replied. “Even if you’re not his direct servant, you’re wearing his Daedric artefact. It’ll affect you.”

            “If I start howling at the moon, start looking for some silver,” Callaina said with a sigh.

            Valdr turned out to be sitting in front of a cavern, expression hopeless and his furs bloody. “Niels… Ari… They’re dead,” he said weakly. “Tracked a bear to its den… There’s Spriggans in there.”

            “Spriggans?” Callaina asked Rayya.

            “Nord Dryads. They’re aggressive and can’t be reasoned with.”

            “Wonderful. Falkreath is just full of lovely little surprises, isn’t it?”

            She knelt by Valdr and handed him a healing potion. “This is the best we can do until we get back to Zarya in Falkreath, okay?”

            “Who?” the hunter looked bewildered.

            “That’s Jarl Callaina, Siddgeir’s cousin and replacement,” one of the guards said. “She’s a damned sight better than him or Dengeir.”

            Valdr drank the potion with a grimace. “I know Spriggans are sacred to Kyne but… we were hunting fairly!”

            “Rayya tells me they’re aggressive and can’t be reasoned with.” She wrapped a fur around his shoulders. “Stay here. We’ll deal with them.”

            Spriggans turned out to be worse than Dryads. Wooden claws with poisonous sap, bark-like skin that resisted steel, the ability to turn invisible and heal when in contact with the earth. Callaina wound up hacking the trio of woodland spirits to death with her Oathblade because Saviour’s Hide protected her somewhat from the sap and she was used to seeing the distortion in the air from Invisibility. The guards and Rayya were busy with bears and wolves that would provide fine pelts for winter.

            In the end they limped out, carrying Niels and Ari’s corpses, pelts slung across shoulders and ore from the seams in the cave. It was a grimly triumphant procession back to Falkreath-town. Valdr insisted on giving Callaina his lucky dagger as a thank you, even _after_ she told him she was the Jarl and it was her job to protect her people.

            “We better get Lod to make you some bracers and leggings,” Rayya noted. “Your legs look like you took a stroll through a patch of snowberry bushes.”

            “I can’t afford to pay him and we didn’t get him the dog we promised,” Callaina sighed. “Are all Spriggans that bad?”

            “Some are worse. The matron ones…” Rayya shuddered. “We have a few that spilled over into Hammerfell. I lost a friend to one.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “So am I.”

            They returned to the town and one guard took Valdr to Zarya for proper treatment while the other two took Ari and Niels to Runil for burial. The cabbages and potatoes had been harvested, the carrots and leeks would be tomorrow, and the wheat the day after that. From the sounds of merriment at the Dead Man’s Drink, everyone was enjoying the ale Callaina had provided.

            “I hope they left some ale for us,” Rayya said wryly. “We’ve earned it.”

            “Amen,” Callaina agreed.

            They left the furs at Lod’s for tanning and returned to the longhouse.

            “You two!” growled a voice from the darkest corner. “Where’s the Jarl?”

            Rayya pushed Callaina behind her and drew her curved blades. “Who are you to make demands?”

            A hefty blond emerged from the shadows. He wore Imperial armour that was polished and relatively unscarred. “I’m Idolaf Battle-Born. Again, where’s the Jarl? I’ve been waiting all day for her.”

            “What’s your business with the Stag Throne?” Rayya demanded.

            Idolaf smiled. “General Tullius sends his regards. As Jarl Callaina has no husband or heirs, he has invoked the Imperial Succession Act of 192. I’m here to be her husband.”

…

Cirroc rode into Falkreath with a bound Iman al-Suda slung across the back of his horse. Most of the challenge in finding her had been keeping Kematu’s grubby little mitts off the operation after the Crown had managed to piss off Jarl Balgruuf to the point of banning all Alik’r from the city of Whiterun. Since it was only a three-day ride from Whiterun to Elinhir, he decided to deliver Iman to his mother and let her take the credit. A Sword-Saint’s service was to his people, not his own pride.

            The first thing he heard in the darkness was Callaina’s alto delivering a blistering tirade to someone, accusing them of being high-handed and rude. Idolaf Battle-Born’s gruff tenor tried to break through now and then, claiming ‘orders’, ‘Tullius’ and ‘succession’, but Callaina was on a roll.

            “And there was them who doubted she was the Stormsword’s daughter,” said one Nord to another as they left the tavern.

            The other Nord grinned. “Rayya told me she was calling that Daedra dog all kinds of names no lady of good breeding should know. I gave her twenty septims to teach me a few words.”

            “Halt!” One of the guards came forward. “Who are you and what are you doing with that woman?”

            “My name is Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir, Sword-Saint of the First Rank, and the woman is Iman al-Suda, the traitor who sold out the city of Taneth to the Thalmor in the Great War,” Cirroc answered, producing papers. “Jarl Balgruuf’s court wizard questioned her and her guilt was proven.”

            “I’ll get Nenya,” said the first Nord, a blond.

            “And I’ll get the Jarl,” the second, a man almost as brown as a Redguard, offered. “Maybe there’ll be enough of Idolaf to send back to his da if we intervene now.”

            Nenya was the first to arrive, a sallow-skinned Altmer whose golden hair was coarse and her bones strong for one of her race. “Lord Cirroc!” she greeted with a friendly smile. “Jarl Callaina’s given me orders to assist you in any way.”

            Callaina arrived right on her heels and Cirroc had to blink. The cringing, wide-eyed woman he remembered from Helgen had been replaced by a hot-eyed virago in armour emblazoned with a snarling wolf’s face. She took a couple deep breaths and collected herself. “Welcome to Falkreath,” she said. “You came at an… interesting time.”

            “I didn’t even know he was here,” Nenya said apologetically.

            “I don’t blame you. Damn Tullius and whatever game that…” Callaina wrestled her temper under control. “Sorry, Cirroc. Did you get the people you were after?”

            “One. Lu’ah al-Skaven is ‘kill on sight’,” Cirroc told her. “What’s Tullius done?”

            “Gone and found me a husband,” Callaina said flatly. “Apparently the Battle-Borns are influential enough I can’t just kick him out.”

            Cirroc shook his head. Arranged marriages were often expected among the nobility of all factions in Hammerfell, though usually care was taken to make sure the prospective partners got on well. It made more sense to him than the Nord ideal of marrying for love. “What’s the problem?”

            “The problem is that Tullius went off and arranged it without consulting me,” Callaina told him. “He’s telling Skyrim that I’m unable to make these arrangements for myself, that I’m a puppet of the Empire, and that he’s got the right to make more than military decisions for the province.”

            “Oh. Yeah, I can see why you’re unhappy.” Cirroc rubbed his nose. “Can I stay overnight?”

            “Of course.” Callaina eyed Iman and pursed her lips. “What about her?”

            “She can be ungagged for food and drink but she can’t be unbound. You’d better have a woman tend to her because she’s very seductive and persuasive. Once in Elinhir, she’s my mother’s problem, but she’s escaped the Alik’r twice.”

            “I’ll handle it,” Nenya promised. “Rayya has a preference for women, so…”

            “Careful, she bites,” Cirroc warned the Altmer.

            The longhouse was as primitive and empty as Cirroc feared. “You think it’s bad now, you should have seen it with all the dead animal heads on the walls,” Callaina said over her shoulder as she lit lamps with magic.

            Cirroc shuddered. The Nord hobby of taxidermy was gruesome, to say the least. They even embalmed the corpses of their human dead!

            Iman was ungagged. “My Jarl, this assassin is taking me to the Thalmor!”

            “Shut up,” Callaina said grimly. “Balgruuf’s wizard found you guilty and you’re demonstrating three of the tell-tales of a liar. Call my brother an assassin again and I’ll have your tongue removed.”

            The utter menace in her voice even frightened Cirroc. In the corner, an extremely chastened Idolaf cringed.

            Iman fell back and Nenya sighed. “I’ll see if we have something to feed her.”

            “Valga’s got some day-old porridge.” Callaina sighed and removed the strange backwards-horned crown she wore. “Please take Idolaf to the inn with you. I’m not in the mood to deal with Tullius’ shit today.”

            “You can’t disobey the General’s orders,” the Battle-Born scion pointed out weakly.

            “He’s going to have to sweeten them a good deal more for me to accept them,” Callaina retorted. “And you’re going to have to lose your attitude before I’ll even consider you as a courter.”

            Idolaf wisely went, but not before he cast a surprised look at Iman. He probably recognised her as a barmaid from the local inn at Whiterun.

            “I hope the past few weeks have been more fun for you than they’ve been for me,” Callaina said wryly.

            “I’ve been training with the Companions,” Cirroc admitted. “You?”

            “Hunted a werewolf, followed a Daedric dog around Skyrim and killed Spriggans,” Callaina responded with a sigh. “That’s when I haven’t been trying to reach an accommodation with the Forsworn and pay off Siddgeir’s debts.”

            “You can bargain with the Forsworn?” Cirroc asked in disbelief. “I just thought they were all Daedra-worshipping tribal cultists.”

            “Their faith is… complex. Nenya’s made a study of it. I’ve got some clout with them because I’ve allowed free passage to their holy sites in return for them not raiding me,” Callaina replied. “My maternal grandmother was a Reacher Nord and is now apparently a Matriarch.”

            “Hagraven,” Cirroc told her. “Your grandmother is a Hagraven.”

            “Probably. It appears that among the Reachfolk, a Matriarch is a female leader who’s acquired the blessing of one or more god. Because I hunted down a werewolf for Hircine and acquired the Masque of Clavicus Vile, they consider me one.” Callaina rubbed her temples. “Do you want me to see if the Forsworn are open to leaving caravans from Elinhir alone? The more trade from Hammerfell, the better for Falkreath.”

            “I’d… appreciate it,” Cirroc said slowly. “So would Mother. We’ve never really quarrelled with the Forsworn – that’s Dragonstar up north where they usually raid, my grandfather’s city. But having that assurance…”

            “If you come back to Skyrim, I’ll see if I can contact Kaie mac Aine. She seems to be the local Reach spokeswoman around here.”

            “I haven’t got Lu’ah yet, and I embarrassed several Alik’r in fetching Iman.” Cirroc smiled thinly. “If a Crown named Kematu shows up and decides to be obnoxious, toss him in a jail cell for a few days. Even the Lhotunic moderates can’t stand his arse.”

            Callaina shook her head. “I’ll escort him to the border. I’m sympathetic, little brother, but I don’t need the na-Totambu holding a grudge.”

            Cirroc was impressed she knew the ancient name of the Crowns faction. But then she’d been a border tax official. Lots of Crowns, Forebears and Lhotunics went through Bruma from Elinhir or Dragonstar. “Understandable. But believe me when I say Kematu’s obnoxious.”

            “You haven’t seen obnoxious until you’ve met a Cyrod who’s resentful that you’re a Nord who tops him by six inches,” Callaina said dryly. “Cyrod men didn’t much enjoy looking up at me.”

            She crossed over to a cupboard and pulled out a couple fur pallets. “Unless you want to get a room at the inn, this is the best I can offer,” she said.

            “It’s fine by me. I’m sure Iman will live with it because once she gets back to Elinhir, my mother will probably find a nice way to pickle her head for the Tanethians.” Cirroc smiled grimly.

            Callaina grimaced. “I don’t much hold with that. Kill ‘em, give ‘em a good burial.”

            Cirroc decided not to mention the rest of Iman’s likely punishment at the hands of the Priests of Tu’whacca in Hammerfell. Death would be the least of it.

            But he rather thought his mother would be happy to know that his half-sister was willing to respect Redguard ways. Elinhir needed the trade from Skyrim as much as Falkreath needed the trade from Hammerfell.

            The Empire was cracking apart, but it didn’t mean the provinces needed to.


	11. The Serpent's Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny and graphic depictions of violence. Borrowing some elements of the Serpent’s Trail as designed by the Beyond Skyrim team.

 

Iman al-Suda waited until the longhouse was quiet, only the sounds of sleeping audible, before making her move. Cirroc ibn Rustem hadn’t been the first to capture her and perhaps he wouldn’t be the last if she ever let herself get complacent again. His only mistake had been a basic one; tying the cords binding her hands at the front instead of the back. She gnawed and bit and tugged until the knot unravelled. After that, it was a simple matter of untying her legs once her wrists were free. Silently, she remained in place until the pins and needles passed, then rose to her feet. There was a measure of vengeance owed for the Jarl’s threat and she knew precisely how to obtain it.

            Idolaf Battle-Born always took a piss around the midnight hour and his routine was no different in Falkreath. Iman padded towards him on silent feet, quicksilver katana in hand, and drew him into an embrace from behind. “It’s nothing personal,” she murmured in her former lover’s ear as she drew the blade across his throat, light as a whisper, before gently lowering him to the ground. Her hand over his mouth silenced his final breaths. Let Cirroc’s bitch sister explain herself out of this one with the Legion.

            Then with an inward smile, Iman left Falkreath along the road that would take her to Cyrodiil. She’d always been fond of Nibenese cuisine.

…

Callaina woke to a murdered Battle-Born and an escaped prisoner.

            “She’s easily had six or seven hours’ head start,” Runil reported with a sigh as he closed Idolaf’s eyes. “The borders with Hammerfell or Cyrodiil are readily within reach, even on foot.”

            “And she’s framed me for his murder,” Callaina said grimly. She cast Clairvoyance and the trail led directly to the Cyrodiil gate. “Will the Legion let her through at Pale Pass?”

            “I honestly don’t know,” Runil confessed. “What if she’s crossed over into County Bruma?”

            “If she was a friend of the Thalmor’s in Hammerfell, then Iannus Carvain himself would assist her,” Callaina said flatly. “He’s a real toady to the blackcoats.”

            Judging by the Yokudan obscenities coming from the Jarl’s longhouse, Cirroc realised Iman was gone.

            “It’s going to take me an hour to get a search party together,” she said. “Take Idolaf’s body to the Hall of the Dead. He was an arse but he didn’t deserve this.”

            Cirroc met her at the door. “I need-“

            “She’s already at the Cyrodiil border, or near enough,” Callaina interrupted. “Get dressed, grab some breakfast, and be ready to ride in an hour.”

            She pushed past a stunned Cirroc and went into her bedroom. Saviour’s Hide, the Masque of Clavicus Vile and a pair of high cavalry boots were her choices. She’d need a new blade, because Akaviri tradition stated a katana used to murder couldn’t be trusted in battle.

            An hour later, she, Rayya, Cirroc and Thadgeir were on the stocky cob horses used in Falkreath and riding for the Cyrodiil border. Callaina could only pray that Legion protocols held and she was still at the gates.

            Three hours later, she was dismounting and approaching the gate guard. “Has a Redguard woman with scars on her left cheek come this way?” she demanded. It would be trickier if she knew about the Serpent’s Trail, the old Akaviri trail under the Jeralls.

            “The Imperial messenger? Yes,” the guard said. “Is something wrong…?”

            Callaina muttered a curse. “Something wrong? Yes, there’s something wrong. One of your people has been murdered by a traitor to Hammerfell who’s known for cooperation with the Thalmor during the Great War. If you’ve let her through to Cyrodiil, Quaestor, someone’s going to want your head.”

            The Colovian blinked. “Just who the hell are you when you’re at home?”

            “Jarl Aurelia Callaina of Falkreath,” she said crisply. “The Nord gentleman is my grand-uncle Thadgeir, the Redguard woman my huscarl Rayya bint Jubal al-Elinhir and the Redguard youth Cirroc ibn Safiya al-Elinhir.”

            She could explain to Cirroc why she used his matronymic later. The Aurelii weren’t fondly remembered in County Bruma.

            “I can’t let you across the border unless you have the proper permissions,” the Quaestor said heavily. “She had the right paperwork. You don’t.”

            “So where do I get them?”

            “Umm, Legate Rikke in Solitude?”

            “Fine. You better hope she decides to stay a few days in Bruma, Quaestor, or I’ll be requesting Legate Skulnar gives me your head as an apology.”

            Callaina turned her horse away and rode back towards Helgen. “What the hell?” Cirroc demanded. “Can’t you just-?”

            “Cirroc, our family has a lot of secrets. Please be quiet. I’m trying to find one.” She dismounted just around the bend. “Thadgeir, you better take the horses back. I’m about to do something undiplomatic that could get me executed. If I die, Nenya’s Jarl, and fuck what Dengeir thinks.”

            “I’m sympathetic to Cirroc, but-“

            “That bitch has tried to frame me for murder,” Callaina said icily. “I spent twenty-five years wearing the blame for my grandfather’s sins. I’ll be damned before I let some Crown bitch do the same.”

            “Halt!” snapped a rough baritone.

            “I strongly suggest you fuck off _right now_ ,” Callaina snarled as she turned around. Two Stormcloaks were coming towards them, weapons drawn.

            “Is that a threat?” demanded the woman.

            “No, it’s a promise. There’s four of us to your two,” Rayya said grimly. “We don’t want a fight with Stormcloaks but if you don’t leave, you’ll have one.”

            “Shit. That’s the Jarl of Falkreath,” muttered the man. “Bjarni’s sister!”

            “You mean some puffed-up Imperial puppet,” retorted the woman. “I say we kill her and help Jarl Dengeir get his throne back!”

            “I’m sorry,” the man said, jerking his thumb at the woman. “She’s a Paler. They’re all ‘he’s the Jarl no matter what’ up there.”

            “How else could Skald keep his throne?” Thadgeir said dryly. “We’re doing something we don’t want the Legion to know about, so piss off already.”

            Despite her protests, the woman was chivvied away by the male Stormcloak. “Good luck!” he wished on the way out.

            “I know you’re taking the Serpent’s Trail,” Thadgeir said as he turned back to Callaina. “Your mother and Ulfric used it to escape the Thalmor.”

            “Mother and I need to have a talk when I get back,” Callaina said grimly.

            “I think so too. Rustem wasn’t pleased when he found out your mother let you die, so far as we knew. He killed my elder brother Balgeir over it.” Thadgeir shook his head. “I don’t blame you or Cirroc for his actions. You’re growing into the strongest Jarl we’ve had in generations and he seems like a good kid.”

            “My father’s not exactly proud of that incident,” Cirroc admitted. “I think that’s why he’s a knight errant these days.”

            “Maybe.” Thadgeir tied the horses in a line. “Be careful, Callaina.”

            “I will. If the Battle-Borns come calling, tell them what happened.”

            “Olfrid may not believe you. Talos guide you, lass.”

            He was gone and Callaina took a deep breath. “Bear with me. I only know of this pass by story.”

            It took them another hour to find the right cave. “I don’t know how long it’ll take us to go under the Jeralls,” Callaina admitted. “But we’ll come out just above Cloud Ruler Temple… or what’s left of it.”

            Smugglers had predictably taken over the tunnel, making use of the Akaviri outposts built into the stone, but there was no cohesion in their forces. That meant every time a small group was eliminated, the others had no idea, and so the trio made their slow way along the Serpent’s Trail. “I really should give you two some proper sword training,” Cirroc said. “Your technique’s very sloppy.”

            “Purely speaking, it is,” Rayya agreed. “But both of us would survive in a battle longer than you. Most soldiers don’t have the purity of form a Sword-Saint does, Cirroc. We learn whatever works to survive. Callaina’s a spellsword. Her technique relies on throwing fire in one hand and hacking down the fleeing enemy with the sword in her other. Mine relies on two shamshirs. You were trained with a nimcha.”

            The sword names were nonsense to Callaina, so she kept on casting Clairvoyance to find the Cyrodiil entrance. There was one, but there was also a big Akaviri fort in the biggest cavern just ahead.

            Callaina took a deep breath. “How many do you think?”

            “Twenty. Most of them look slack and lazy. They’re secure here.” Rayya sniffed the air. “Damn, spiced beans. Better than our trail rations.”

            “Do you smell meat?” Callaina asked.

            “Nope. I don’t think they’re into roasted rats or skeevers, and a tunnel like this would need to be constantly guarded, so not a lot of chance for hunting.”

            “I remember hearing about something a Legion Alterationist did with a deer. It was a poison spell.” Callaina sighed. “Didn’t we see a dead deer back there?”

            They had, a nice big buck that was still fresh enough to have been taken in the hunt, and Callaina carefully poisoned the venison. She hoped it worked. Then they approached openly bearing the stag.

            “We just want free passage to Cyrodiil,” Callaina told them. “Skyrim’s getting a little, ah, rambunctious for our liking what with the Legion conscripting everyone and the Stormcloaks doing the same.”

            “Tell me about it,” agreed a ratty-looking Nord. “How’d you get so deep in? Snorri’s band holds the Skyrim side.”

            “Was that his name?” Callaina asked dryly. “There was some disagreement over tolls at the other end. He might have decided to insult me on my choice of armour. My brother might have cut him into collops.”

            As she suspected, Snorri had no friends among this group of bandits. The ratty Nord laughed. “Good for you! You know, if you’re looking for some work, we’ve got a good thing going here.”

            “Nah, I’ve got a contact in Anvil who can get us in touch with the Stros M’kai lot,” Callaina drawled. “I’m just coming down through Bruma instead of Hammerfell because the Alik’r aren’t letting anyone who isn’t Redguard through the Kreathling border.”

            “Same father,” Cirroc said. “But yeah, it’s true. They’re worried the civil war will spill over into Hammerfell.”

            “Can’t fault them. The Legion’s full of idiots and the Stormsword is a lunatic,” the Nord said. “You can pass if you leave the deer. I haven’t seen meat in months.”

            “We were hoping you’d say that,” Callaina said sincerely. “Snorri didn’t think it was good enough.”

            “Snorri was an idiot,” the Nord said laconically.

            “I’ll drink to that.”

            They were allowed to pass unhindered and soon enough, they were looking out across the Colovian Estates and down at the charred ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple. Callaina shuddered instinctively before casting Clairvoyance. Iman was close. _Very_ close.

            She was, in the end, in the half-standing main hall of Cloud Ruler Temple with a young Altmer in black robes. “Nurancar,” Callaina hissed. “The son of Elenwen and Nurancar the Elder, known as the Butcher of Bruma.”

            “I do not appreciate being drawn out of my warm office by some Redguard whore,” Nurancar was saying. “Who are you to know such a recognition signal?”

            “I am Iman al-Suda. You can thank me for my work later,” the traitor responded calmly. “The Alik’r tracked me to Skyrim but it was a Sword-Saint – Rustem Aurelius’ son no less – who captured me. I managed to escape and leave a little mess for his slut sister.”

            “Aurelia Callaina? She’s no threat. Titus Mede broke her almost as well as a Thalmor could.”

            “You’re wrong. She wears the Saviour’s Hide and the Masque of Clavicus Vile. She’s got friends among the Forsworn.” Iman’s voice sweetened. “She’s even killed Thalmor agents in Skyrim.”

            “Shoot Nurancar first,” Callaina murmured in Rayya’s ear. “He’s a reasonably good Destruction mage.”

            “Huh. Is she allied with the Stormcloaks?”

            “I don’t know. There’s rumours the Dragonborn is a Stormcloak, maybe even one of Ulfric’s boys.”

            Callaina cursed under her breath. “Cirroc, I’m sorry, you’ll have to take her head back to Elinhir. She knows too much.”

            “The reward was greater if she was alive, but her head will do. Good thing Sword-Saints are sworn to simple living,” Cirroc said quietly. “Rayya?”

            Her recurve bow sang and Nurancar toppled over, surprise in his face. Iman swore and bolted for the stairs, only to be confronted by Callaina and Cirroc.

            “How did you get past the gate guard?” Iman demanded.

            “I am Aurelii and you thought to hide in the ruins of my childhood home,” Callaina said mildly. “I don’t know what’s more insulting – that you tried to frame me for murder or that you tried to escape.”

            “Draw your weapon,” Cirroc suggested. “Draw your weapon and you might yet see the Far Shores. Or don’t and you can die like a dog.”

            “The Thalmor had my big brother prisoner,” Iman wheedled. “What else was I to do?”

            “Die with honour like he did.” One moment Cirroc was standing beside Callaina and the next he was swinging a misty sword of light through Iman’s neck. Her body crumpled to the floor and her head fell beside it.

            “Well done. So should traitors be served.” The contralto was hoarse, almost guttural, and Callaina spun around. How had someone snuck into the ruins behind them?

            The woman was taller than Callaina by a good four inches, her skin golden-bronze as some of the oldest Colovian clans could be, but no Cyrod ever had a lantern jaw, prominent underbite and pug nose. Her skirted armour of white and gold was antique, showing off almost grotesquely muscled limbs, and her coarse black hair was cropped short. She looked like an old brawler… except no brawler had green eyes that glittered with a febrile light.

            Aurelia Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch, Champion of Cyrodiil and the Arena, had manifested as the Madgoddess. The stories didn’t do the reality of her justice. It appeared there was truth in them though.

            The question was why was she here and what did she want from her latest two descendants?


	12. Manipulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Heads up, I go back to uni this week and I have a relative undergoing a major operation in a few days, so updates will be less frequent. Trigger warning for discussions of child abuse, neglect and emotional trauma.

 

“Mother _fucker_!”

            Bjarni crumpled the note left where the Horn of Yurgen Windcaller should be, resisting the urge to throw it away. Ralof came from Riverwood and maybe he would recognise the handwriting, a tight bold cursive. Whoever managed to pass through the twisty tunnels and trails of Ustengrav had to be a professional, because Bjarni had managed to scorch himself from the fire traps, collect several minor wounds from the undead patrolling the halls, and nearly get smashed by the gates because he couldn’t Shout Wund fast enough. First his father had died and left an enormous burden to him; now some fucker was playing games with him.

            He took the shortcut just past the burial chamber, pocketing anything useful on the way, and returned to Ralof in the main chamber. The Greybeards had been emphatic about his going alone to Ustengrav. Technically, he had. Kind of. Ralof hadn’t come inside.

            The hearthman was outside at the bandit camp, making use of their fire and pallets. Venison from one of the bunchy fucked-up swamp deer that lived in Hjaalmarch roasted on a makeshift spit, reminding Bjarni he hadn’t eaten much for a couple days. The bandits and the necromancers who enslaved them had a good stock of mead laid in too. He needed it.

            Ralof waited for Bjarni to sit down before he sawed off some of the venison, put it on a bit of bark, and handed it to him with a bottle of mead. Despite his grief, the Dragonborn was ravenous and devoured the rare meat, which was sprinkled with sea salt. He washed it down with half the mead before speaking. “Someone came and took the horn. They left a note telling me to hire the attic room in the Sleeping Giant at Riverwood.”

            “The Sleeping Giant doesn’t _have_ an attic room. A cellar room, sure, but not an attic room.”

            “Do you know this writing?” Bjarni handed him the note.

            “Delphine’s,” the hearthman replied after uncrumpling and scanning it. “She owns the inn. I think she was an adventurer before she was an innkeeper.”

            “Delphine?”

            “Short, greyish-blonde, Breton. Around your ma’s age, maybe a little older, and I’d hate to get into a fight with her.” Ralof studied the note. “I don’t know why she’d want to talk with the Dragonborn but-“

            Bjarni realised why the name was so familiar. “She’s a Blade.”

            “Wait, what?”

            “She’s a Blade. Not just any Blade, but a ranking one. My mother hates her.” Bjarni swallowed his mead and belched. “I remember her ranting to Father about Delphine.”

            “Your mother hates anyone who isn’t Talos and I reckon if Talos came down from heaven to tell her what to do, she’d hate Him too,” Ralof said grimly. He’d taken Ulfric’s dying warning to heart. Bjarni still didn’t know how he was going to neutralise his mother without making it look like he was going to remove her from power.

            Bjarni pursed his lips. “I want to talk to Callaina. Da said she’d warned him. Maybe she knows more about Delphine too.”

            “The Blades are supposed to serve the Dragonborn,” Ralof pointed out.

            “Yeah, well, they’ve managed to piss me off already. Now we have to trudge through the arse-end of Hjaalmarch and Whiterun to Falkreath and then Riverwood.” Bjarni helped himself to another mead. “I’ve got Alduin, Mother and the fucking Imperials to worry about. I’m sure Talos didn’t have to deal with shit like this.”

            “He didn’t have to worry about dragons,” Ralof said with a sigh.

            “Lucky bastard,” Bjarni groused. “All He had to do was unite Tamriel.”

            “And killed a lot of people doing it,” Ralof said soberly. “Callaina warned you about that too.”

            Bjarni drank some more mead. “She said that people will die no matter my choices.”

            “True. You… You’re Ysmir. Once the Greybeards proclaim you, I suspect many will defect from the Imperials to follow you.” Ralof’s smile was grimly sad. “That, I think, is what your mother’s fears – that you’re the Second Coming of Talos, or something very near to it, and you can’t be controlled. And you _will_ have to become the leader of the Stormcloaks. Probably even High King if we win.”

            “We will win.” Bjarni knew that, deep in his bones. “Even if I have to kill every last dragon in Skyrim, learn the Words of every Shout around, and bring the storm to the Legion. If there’s to be blood, let it be on my hands.”

            Ralof nodded. “My loyalty is yours, Dragonborn.”

…

Callaina bowed slightly. “Ancestress,” she said with as much politeness as she could muster. “What brings you here?”

            “Madness,” Aurelia Northstar said dryly.

            “Grandfather was certainly that,” Callaina said grimly. “I don’t know or care if the rumours about Julius Martin are true. The age of the Septims is over. What matters is that we have dragons returning to Skyrim, a civil war and the possible end of the world if Bjarni fails.”

            “Bjarni’s the Dragonborn? Hoo-boy,” Cirroc muttered.

            “If you’d shown as much spine six months ago as you have now, you’d be Dragonborn,” the Madgoddess replied bluntly. “Bjarni’s of the line of Wulfharth but you… you’re a Septim. So’s Cirroc.”

            “What part of ‘I don’t care’ did you miss?” Callaina said flatly. “The name of the Aurelii is tainted because of Grandfather’s lunacy. Titus Mede couldn’t take it out on my father or Uncle Irkand, so he made sure _I_ suffered. Do pardon me if I’m not impressed.”

            “So I’m descended from a Daedric Prince. Fantastic,” Cirroc observed sarcastically. “Oh, and Talos-the-arsehole-who-cheated-when-He-conquered-Hammerfell. Do you know what that means to a Redguard?”

            “No,” the Madgoddess said slowly.

            “I can’t inherit shit. The Septims or any other Imperial dynasty are explicitly excluded from the succession laws of Hammerfell.” Cirroc shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to be a Sword-Saint above a ruler, but now my mother’s going to have to pick one of her younger cousins as heir.”

            “Yes, but you have a right to the Ruby Throne. Ria, the Colovian you train with in Jorrvaskr? She’s about your age and the granddaughter of Titus Mede. Unite the claims and the Empire will stand.”

            “You want me to marry the granddaughter of the man who essentially tortured my sister? Lady, I’m already sympathetic to the Stormcloaks. I don’t much like Talos, but I understand how the Empire failed Hammerfell.” Cirroc lifted his chin proudly. “Go ahead, turn me crazy or whatever. I don’t dance to the tune of Oblivion.”

            “Titus Mede is dying.” The Madgoddess turned Her febrile green gaze to Callaina. “Arius acted out of fear, Callaina, fear and a desire to protect the Empire. I suppose he was mad in some way. Most of the Aurelii are. It’s my legacy, I guess. Irkand’s a sociopath in combat. Rustem defies legitimate authority and acts as he pleases without regard for rhyme, rule or reason. I’m a berserker. Some call it madness… I call it a different way of viewing the world.”

            “You don’t get it, do you?” Callaina asked. “ _I don’t care._ If I had any say in the matter, I’d wash my hands of you and your bloody schemes. How much of my life has been orchestrated, huh?”

            “None of it,” the Madgoddess said grimly. “You… drive events. For good or for ill, you’re drawn into events and drive them forth. If you’d had a bit of backbone, you could have been Empress. You still could be. Falkreath’s a good base and you’re good at making alliances.”

            “Let me put it in short simple words,” Callaina said slowly. “I don’t care about my bloodline. I don’t give a fuck about the Ruby Throne. My concern is Falkreath.”

            “If the Septims were strong enough to hold the Ruby Throne, they’d still be Emperors,” Cirroc said calmly. “But for whatever reason, Julius Martin chose not to claim his birthright, and so the Medes rose to power. If they’re strong enough to hold it, good for them. But I’m not going to help them. Not after they betrayed Hammerfell. We made oaths after the Treaty of Stros M’kai. One of those oaths is that we’d never bow our heads to someone who didn’t deserve it. I am a Sword-Saint of the Yokudans of Hammerfell, a Forebear. _I will not bow to you or anyone, even if you offered me the throne of the world._ ”

            “If the Empire crumbles, the Thalmor will dominate the world, deactivate the Towers and destroy humanity,” the Madgoddess said tightly. “You could unite Stormcloak and Redguard and Imperial and Forsworn, Callaina. This isn’t about power, this is about protecting Nirn.”

            “As much as I love my sister, no Redguard would follow her because she’s a Nord and a Septim,” Cirroc said calmly. “The days of the Empire are over. Let it go.”

            Callaina clenched her fists and stared into the Madgoddess’ eyes. “Fuck. You. Fuck you for the Blades who died because of Grandfather’s rebellion. Fuck you for my suffering. Fuck you for everything.”

            The Madgoddess’ face twisted. “Watch your words, girlie. I’ve killed men for less.”

            “Yes, because you were a half-Orc brawler with anger management issues and a drinking problem,” Callaina retorted acidly. “Go on, Madgoddess. Kill me. Kill me when it won’t be a fair battle. I spit on the Empire and everything it stands for. Kill me or get the fuck out of my way, but don’t you _dare_ judge me for my actions.”

            Cirroc’s hand curled around air and drew that misty sword of light from nothingness. “It’s said that a soul sword can harm Daedra, even Princes. Wanna test it out? Even if I die, I can at least pass on the confirmation to my brethren.”

            The tension ratcheted up to an almost unbearable level. One wrong move could see this place laid to waste.

            Then everything… shifted. All the tension sloughed away like a snake shedding skin. Callaina’s knees almost buckled from the relief but Aurelia and Cirroc didn’t appear affected.

            “You’ve made your choice,” the Northstar said slowly. “Even now, events spiral towards the end. Even I can’t fight Akatosh once the timeline has been set.”

            “The Empire will lose Skyrim anyway,” Cirroc said. “The Dragonborn is a Stormcloak.”

            “The Dragonborn is an idiot,” Aurelia said grimly. “May Akatosh and Talos have the joy of him.”

            The Northstar turned away. “You’ve made your decision, Callaina, and now you must play it out until the end. Farewell, rekdovah, Sword-Saint, we won’t speak again.”

            “Gods be praised,” Callaina said fervently.

            The Madgoddess disappeared into purple-black light and when it was gone, she released a sigh of relief.

            “That’s the second Daedric Prince you’ve told to piss off,” Rayya said in raw astonishment. “I’m trying to decide whether you’re the bravest person I know or the craziest.”

            “So, it looks like you’ve joined the Stormcloak rebellion,” Cirroc said slowly. “We better get across the border before somebody misses Nurancar and comes looking.”

            He picked up Iman’s head. “Let’s go.”


	13. Be Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry for short crappy chapter.

 

They returned to Skyrim via the Serpent’s Trail, each carrying a heavy pack of valuables from the now-dead smugglers, and on the other side Callaina sealed the path with a boulder she lifted magically from the mountain. Cirroc watched his sister casually gesture and the horse-sized hunk of rock settle into place like a cork shoved into a bottle. He had to wonder what she’d be capable of if she’d only had to worry about studying magic. Probably the new Shalidor or something.

            The new katana she wore belonged to some Blade called Glenroy. She’d left her previous one because it’d been used to murder that jackass Idolaf. Cirroc sighed. He’d have preferred to deliver Iman alive to his mother.

            “You should hurry back to Elinhir while things are quiet,” Callaina said after they’d walked along the trail back to Falkreath for a bit. “Once word of my defection reaches Tullius, it’ll be… chaotic around here.”

            “So you’re definitely joining the Stormcloaks then?” Cirroc asked. Yes, he’d told her she’d essentially joined up after she rejected the Madgoddess, but he needed to know for certain.

            “No, I’m giving the Dragonborn my allegiance,” Callaina replied. “Bjarni will be proclaimed as Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, by the Greybeards sooner or later. Imagine, oh, if the avatars of HoonDing lay at the heart of Redguard mythology and one was a hero of prophecy who was in the line of succession. Bjarni’s the son of the first Battle-Tongue in several hundred years and the ‘last’ Shieldmaiden of Talos, the inheritor of Shor’s powers, and the prophesised Bane of Alduin. He’s going to have to become leader of the rebellion if they want to free Skyrim from the Empire.”

            “She’s right, more or less,” Rayya agreed.

            “I owe Bjarni and Ralof my life,” Cirroc said slowly. “I’ll come back once this head is delivered to settle the debt. I won’t win the war for them… but I think I can even up the odds a little.”

            Callaina sighed. “You’re a good kid, Cirroc. You should worry about Hammerfell, not this mess we’re in.”

            “But thanks to our mutual Daedric ancestor, I’m already involved,” Cirroc pointed out. “Don’t think I’m getting involved in the politics. That’s your problem, not mine.”

            He echoed her sigh. “Mother needs to know the truth of my ancestry. I can’t inherit because I’m descended from the Septims, so she’ll need to choose an heir.”

            “I’m sorry about that. It had always been a rumour but…” Callaina shook her head. “It doesn’t mean much in the long run. The time of the Septims is ended.”

            They were now near the ruins of Helgen. For the next hour or so they followed the road along Lake Ilinata in silence, the sun filtering through the pine and fir trees. Cirroc brooded on the revelations of the past half-week and wondered what it would mean for his future as a Sword-Saint.

            They returned to Falkreath-town just after sunset. Everything seemed quiet and so Cirroc followed Callaina to the Jarl’s longhouse. He could cross the border tomorrow morning.

            But waiting for them were Bjarni and Ralof. Looked like the quiet times were about to end.

…

“Where the hell were you?” Bjarni demanded. “We’ve been dodging Imperials all day.”

            “I was dealing with the murderer of a guest,” Callaina replied with a raised eyebrow. “Why are you here? Don’t you have to deal with the Greybeards or something?”

            “I would be, but a Blade took the bloody Horn of Yurgen Windcaller,” Bjarni said sourly. “Delphine.”

            Callaina frowned slightly. “Name’s familiar but I can’t place her.”

            “I can,” Cirroc said grimly. “She seduced Uncle Irkand, then dumped him for Dad, and then disappeared.”

            “Mother’s not fond of her,” Bjarni agreed. “Now she’s over in Riverwood and I have to go meet her.”

            “Now I can place her,” Callaina said softly. “I remember a lot of yelling. Father… Well, I don’t think he was happy in the marriage. Neither was Mother.”

            “Arius Aurelius has a lot to answer for and it’s a damned shame he didn’t survive to,” Cirroc said flatly.

            Callaina regarded her brother soberly. “He was crucified and I had to watch. He paid for it in the end.”

            She removed the Masque of Clavicus Vile, dropped a pack by the throne, and kicked off her boots. “I’m standing with you, Bjarni, because you’re the Dragonborn. There’s other reasons, but that’s the main one.”

            “You don’t know what this means to me,” Bjarni began, only to be silenced by a bleak gaze from his sister.

            “I have little choice after recent actions in Cyrodiil.” She undid her bracers. “You need to decide what kind of leader you want to be. Talos conquered nations… but he made a lot of enemies in doing so, and some of them are still alive today.”

            “So you’ve said before.” Bjarni was dying to know what happened in Cyrodiil. “My father… He’s dead, Callaina. He took a wound in that battle with the Thalmor.”

            Her mouth tightened. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

            “Damn. He deserved a lot of respect,” Cirroc said. “Look, I’m going to get some sleep, Callaina. I’ve got to get this head back to Hammerfell.”

            “I’ll see you in the morning, Cirroc. Sleep well.” Callaina smiled wearily at the Redguard before he left the longhouse.

            “If you’ll excuse me, Jarl, I could use some rest too,” Rayya told her.

            “Go on. I’ll try not to keep you awake.”

            The huscarl bowed, dumped her pack and climbed upstairs. Callaina buried her face in her hands and sighed.

            Bjarni knew that feeling. “He told me Mother was a danger and that you’d warned him. Then he proclaimed me as Ysmir in Dovahzul and his last words were ‘You are Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Hearken to it’.”

            “So he named you as his successor,” Callaina said, raising her face from her hands.

            “Yes. We have to break free of the Empire-“

            “I know. Believe me, I know. Imperial bureaucracy nearly let a murderer and traitor escape. If I didn’t remember tales of an old Blades path…” Callaina shook her head. “I don’t remember much about Mother, only that she liked to be in charge of everything. Some of the stories I’ve heard are pretty grim.”

            “She loves power,” Ralof, silent until now, said grimly. “She will try to stop Bjarni from taking command of the Stormcloaks.”

            “Once he’s proclaimed as Ysmir, he’ll have a hard time doing that,” Callaina pointed out.

            “She’ll find ways,” Ralof said grimly.

            “Probably.” Callaina sighed and looked at Bjarni. “What do you expect from me?”

            Bjarni took a deep breath. The dragon within demanded dominion but he throttled its voice. “You know what Talos did wrong. Help me to do better.”

            He would not repeat the mistakes of the Septim or Mede Empires. He had to be better than that.


	14. The Second Coming of Talos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for aphobia (discrimination against asexual and aromantic people).

 

For a few days, Callaina felt almost normal, wearing plain linen clothing and going over the Hold’s finances with Nenya. The loot from the Serpent’s Trail had been sold to merchants going to Hammerfell and the coin would soon vanish in the yawning abyss of Falkreath’s debts. Falkreath should have been a wealthy Hold with its fine furs, lumber and two solid mines producing common but useful ores. Instead, it had been ignored and run into the ground by two very inattentive Jarls, and now it was Callaina paying the butcher’s bill. She accepted that frugality would be the course of her life, no matter who won the civil war. It would be a short life if Bjarni lost and the Empire discovered her treason.

            Once the season’s income was sorted and the coin dispatched to Solitude to pay off a few more merchants, it was time for the autumn Holdmoot. Falkreath was generally orderly and since a few bandit groups had been wiped out, there was a decrease in highway robbery. But there was one very stubborn group who slipped through the guards’ fingers every time, located somewhere around the old Pinewatch estate near Lakeview Manor. Rumour had it a woman named Rigel Strong-Arm ran the warband. Rumour had it she was very, very wealthy from her predations.

            Falkreath could use one less group of bandits on the roads and if Rigel was as rich as rumour painted her, the loot might just pay off the Hold’s debts entirely. But somehow Callaina suspected the guards wouldn’t be able to find her. A certain amount of… cunning was required.

            She pondered the problem as she sat on the Stag Throne, waiting for everyone to gather for the Holdmoot. A general amnesty on bandits in exchange for information _might_ bring some assistance, but it could be a lie, and she’d be unleashing raiders on some other Hold. She couldn’t afford the kind of mercenary that could track and execute an entire warband. The Dark Brotherhood was even more expensive and the Thieves’ Guild would demand a hefty share of the treasure. Did the Forsworn hire out as mercenaries? She doubted they’d hunt and kill for someone not of their people.

            Callaina rubbed her eyes and sighed. Hunting down traitors and telling the Madgoddess where to go was less stressful than the minutiae of rulership.

            “Matriarch Callaina?” At the sound of the soft Reach-accented voice, Callaina looked up to see Kaie mac Aine in the great hall.

            “How the hell did you get past my guards?” Callaina asked.

            “I encouraged them to ignore me. It’s a minor Illusion spell, not as strong as Invisibility, but it encourages the eye to look away.” Kaie stepped into the light and Callaina realised she was dressed in plain homespun with her crest flattened down under a starched cap some older women wore.

            “I can think of a few times I could have used that spell,” Callaina said dryly. “Are you here for the Holdmoot?”

            “Yes. I spoke with Matriarch Catriona, your grandmother. She won’t budge on the curse. Too many of Lost Valley Clan have died because of Dengeir and the Stormcloaks.” Kaie shrugged eloquently. “The rest of the bargain is more than acceptable.”

            Callaina sighed. “It was worth a shot. I’ll take what I can get, Kaie. I do have some… mixed news.”

            The Forsworn arched an eyebrow. “An interesting choice of words.”

            “The good news is that Ulfric got himself gutted escaping the Thalmor who’d taken two of my people. He’s dead, if that makes things any better.”

            “That makes many things better.” Kaie blew out a sharp breath. “I have heard that there is a new Talos running around.”

            “The Dragonborn is Ulfric’s eldest son Bjarni,” Callaina confirmed carefully. “I’ve tried hammering it into his head that Talos did as many terrible things as great things. He seems to want to avoid the atrocities, at least, but he has no choice but to step up and take command of the Stormcloaks. The other option is Sigdrifa Stormsword and… _Well_.”

            “Fire to one side, ice to the other,” Kaie said with a sigh. “Dragons have been sighted at Karthspire. They were driven away by the clan there but…”

            “Karthspire?” Callaina tilted her head.

            “Yes. It’s the highest peak in the Reach. So high that the Akaviri-“

            “Built Sky Haven Temple on it,” Callaina finished. “The gods do like to make things interesting, because that temple holds everything the Dragonguard ever knew on dragons, and the Last Dragonborn is Ulfric’s son.”

            Kaie raised an eyebrow. “You know about dragons?”

            “Not as much as I wish. I forgot a lot of the Blades lore I learned as a child.” Callaina closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I know you hate the Stormcloaks and have every reason to want to pike Bjarni’s head at the entrance to a camp. But Bjarni is the only one who has a hope in hell of defeating Alduin World-Eater. That’s why the dragons are attacking Karthspire, because if he gets to Alduin’s Wall, he’ll learn the key to bringing that monster down. I was at Helgen and saw what he did to one village.”

            “What happens if this Alduin isn’t defeated?” Kaie asked slowly.

            Callaina opened her eyes. “End of the world.”

            “By the gods of the Left Hand and the Right,” the Forsworn swore. She turned and began to pace around the firepit. “Madanach would never agree. Better the world die than the Reach be enslaved by another Dragonborn.”

            “I understand the sentiment,” Callaina said quietly. “I don’t think Bjarni himself would want to cause trouble. It’s the warlords and the zealots who are the problem.”

            “Aren’t they always?” Kaie asked wryly.

            “Yep. The rest of the troublemakers are the bureaucrats and the lawspeakers.” Callaina pinched the bridge of her nose. “Things are going to be interesting around here. I’ve given my allegiance to the Dragonborn. Not just because he’s the Dragonborn, but because he’s my brother and he wants to be better than Talos.”

            “Power corrupts,” Kaie said softly.

            “I know. But as you say, fire and ice. One of my, ah, Imperial relatives was trying to manipulate the situation and I and my brother on my father’s side told her to shove off.” Callaina sighed. “I had the choice to do what _another_ Daedric Prince told me to do or chart my own course. I chose my own course, for good or for ill.”

            “There are many among the Forsworn who’d die for the opportunity to serve one of the gods.”

            “They want to work for the Madgoddess, be my guest,” Callaina said ruefully. “Two gods meddling in my life is _quite_ enough.”

            “I suppose so,” Kaie agreed. “Do you think you can stop this Bjarni from becoming the next Talos?”

            Callaina looked blindly over her head. “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

…

“Look, I’ve given you the horn,” Delphine said, leaning over the table with her hands planted on the dragon burial map. “I’m not your enemy.”

            “No, you’re just the woman who humiliated my mother, betrayed her lover and abandoned your brothers and sisters to die at Cloud Ruler,” Bjarni said bluntly. At her single blink, he smiled thinly. “Yes, Delphine Revanche, I know who you are – Second Blade of the Blades.”

            “Are you really the Dragonborn?” the Blade asked, eyes glittering dangerously.

            For answer, Bjarni breathed the ‘Feim’ word he’d learned in Ustengrav, becoming a translucent wraith. “That proof enough for you?” he asked in a hollow voice. “My father never knew that Shout.”

            “True. Ulfric was piss, vinegar and thunder,” Delphine agreed. “I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”

            “No, you’re not,” Bjarni told her. “You were hoping for some nice biddable Nord who might be dazzled by your tits, not the son of the Stormsword.”

            Delphine’s mouth tightened and then she huffed a laugh. “You’re no fool.”

            “Not when it comes to politics,” Bjarni confirmed. “Not when it comes to the sordid little tale that was the fall of the Aurelii.”

            “Your mother and grandfather betrayed Arius,” Delphine countered calmly. “When Arius sent to Dengeir to hold the north end of Pale Pass as was agreed, Dengeir didn’t come, and letters with the seal of Falkreath’s Jarl were sent to the Legate of County Bruma.”

            “Rustem had already betrayed my mother,” Bjarni pointed out. “I have no illusions about the woman, but she didn’t deserve that.”

            “They should never have married,” Delphine said bluntly.

            “Probably not. Still, from that came my sister, and it’s thanks to her and her brother Cirroc I know the whole story.” Bjarni crossed his arms and eyed Delphine. “Tell me why I should trust you?”

            “Because the Blades have been ronin – masterless – for over two hundred years,” she replied quietly. “I think that’s how we lost our way. Julius Martin should have taken his father’s throne but he believed secrecy was the best course for the Septim bloodline. It ended with most of them dead and the bloodline descending to a warrior-monk who’d rather duel than fuck and an Imperial puppet-Jarl who probably has to be ordered when to piss every morning.”

            For a covert operative, Delphine’s intelligence was quite faulty, but Bjarni saw no reason to enlighten her. He knew his sister was in a difficult position and as for Cirroc being more interested in duels than sex, who cared? The man was the Redguard equivalent of a Greybeard. “So it’s true the Aurelii are descended from the Septims?”

            “Yes. But now we have a new Dragon-Blooded lineage to serve.”

            “More of you, eh?” Bjarni asked dryly.

            “I can’t tell you how many there are, but not all the Blades died.” Delphine sounded firm but something in her voice claimed otherwise. “I know where the next dragon attack will be. Kynesgrove.”

            “Oh, you mean Sahloknir? Already killed him,” Bjarni said cheerfully. “Bit spicy, that one.”

            “I… see.” Delphine took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Your mother and I have our issues, but we need to work together. I didn’t know that Rustem was married when I met him. If I’d known what the man-slut of Bruma was like, I’d have stayed far away. Irkand was… clingy, I suppose. Not a wise thing for an assassin to be.”

            “I hear he’s a Knight of Arkay these days.”

            “No, he’s still an assassin. He just kills necromancers and powerful undead for a god now.” Delphine shook her head. “The past is the past, Bjarni. We need to look to the future and the Stormcloaks. That’s why I need to come to Eastmarch and I need to know your mother won’t pike my head at the gate.”

            “You can come, but I make no promises,” Bjarni told her. “The Stormsword probably wouldn’t take orders from Talos if He came back.”

            Delphine’s eyes glittered. “That’s the thing, Bjarni – _you’re_ the Second Coming of Talos. What else could you be?”


	15. Proclamations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Iman al-Suda’s head, which I acquired with some help from the Jarl of Falkreath.”

            Cirroc placed the head on the low lacquered table in front of his mother and cousins. Better a touch of the sweet to ease the taste of the bitter. “I can confirm her connection to the Thalmor. She was meeting with Nurancar the Younger in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple when we cornered her.”

            “We?” Safiya asked quietly. Even in her late forties she was still a beautiful woman, tawny as amber from a Cyrod grandsire and with eyes the matte black of onyx.

            “Myself, the Forebear Rayya bint Jubal al-Elinhir, and Callaina bint Rustem al-Falkreath.” Given the formality of the occasion, Cirroc decided to go with his sister’s Yokudan naming. “The Imperials ran out of Kreathling Jarls so they installed her as a puppet. I think they’re going to be surprised when they find out she’s anything but.”

            Dalila, the cousin most likely to inherit Elinhir, snorted amusedly. “We’ve heard rumours of her here, cousin. Is it true she wears the pelt of a werewolf white as snow and is crowned with a Daedra’s horns?”

            “Kind of,” Cirroc admitted. “She hunted the werewolf Sinding for Hircine and his pelt was fashioned into Saviour’s Hide. I’m not sure on the details of how she got the Masque of Clavicus Vile beyond Rayya swearing she told the Daedric Prince where to go, but she wears it a lot. She has, however, rejected the Madgoddess’ plans for her, as have I. Let the Septim dynasty be forgotten.”

            Safiya sighed. “So you know?”

            “The Madgoddess told me. I’m aware of the consequences, Mother.”

            “Why do you think I allowed you to go to the monastery?” Safiya asked gently. “I didn’t want to see you caught between the laws of the land and your bloodline, Cirroc.”

            “Father told you?”

            “Yes, he did.” Safiya placed her hands palm-down on her knees. The meeting room they used was small and cosy, panelled with Kreathling pine and adorned with fretted screens forged from Reach-mined silver. “Is it true dragons have returned to Skyrim?”

            “Yes. Ulfric Stormcloak’s son Bjarni is the Dragonborn, according to Callaina. She’s given him her allegiance because he’s Ysmir, the Dragon of the North.” Cirroc rubbed his itchy nose. The sandalwood incense his mother used always irritated his nostrils. “That they are maternal half-siblings probably helps too.”

            “The Stormsword remarried?” Safiya’s eyebrow shot up.

            “Yep. I get the feeling the Stormcloaks are going to have a little internal conflict when Bjarni tries to take command.” Cirroc shook his head. “Neither Callaina nor Bjarni have any great love for their mother.”

            “Rustem was an adulterer to both his wives,” Safiya said with rare bluntness. “That was his fault. But the Stormsword was a traitor who used the name of her god to justify it. That is her fault.”

            “If it wasn’t for Bjarni or his second Ralof, I wouldn’t have survived Helgen,” Cirroc admitted. “Callaina tells me that the dragons will eat the world if they’re not stopped.”

            “It matches with the literature in the Towers,” supplied Neelam, one of Cirroc’s scholarly cousins. “ _The Prophecy of the Dragonborn, the Akatosh/Alduin Dichotomy_ , and _Alduin Is Real_ were most informative.”

            “Well, then.” Safiya regarded Iman’s head with a sigh. “Let it not be said Hammerfell didn’t give aid in a time of woe. Cirroc, return to Skyrim and pay your debt to the Dragonborn. Don’t win the civil war for him but aid him against this Alduin World-Eater. As for your sister… I will send a message. If Rayya bint Jubal serves her, she must be a remarkable woman indeed.”

            “Given she bore the brunt of the Empire’s ire towards the Aurelii, it’s something of a miracle she isn’t broken,” Cirroc said slowly.

            “She is the granddaughter of Farrah bint Setareh. It would take more than Titus Mede to break _that_ bloodline.” Safiya’s mouth tightened. “Do you think Bjarni ibn Ulfric will make himself the new Talos?”

            “He isn’t planning on it and Callaina intends to make sure he won’t be. Or at least he’ll be better than Tiber Septim.”

            “Not hard,” Neelam said dryly.

            “Hammerfell will never be part of any empire again,” Safiya finally said.

            “I know.” Cirroc rubbed his nose again.

            “If this Bjarni looks to be making himself the new Talos… You may have to stop him.” Safiya’s expression was grave. “A Sword-Saint may be able to match a Dragonborn.”

            Cirroc winced. He _liked_ Bjarni. But duty was duty.

            “I understand.”

…

Kaie nic Aine stood before a trio of Hagravens, one of whom was the redoubtable Catriona and another Aine, the Matriarch of Lost Valley Redoubt. “What you ask is troubling,” Aine finally said.

            “I know. Matriarch Callaina knows as much too. But I’ve seen the ruins of Helgen, Mother.”

            “And a dragon went through Karthspire Redoubt like a hot knife through butter,” observed the third Matriarch, whose name was unknown to Kaie. She was a Nord like Catriona, but smaller and fine-boned than the raw-boned leader of the Glenmoril coven. “The Dragonborn’s the only one who can defeat Alduin.”

            “My grandson,” Catriona reminded her. “We know the prophecies, sister. We will regain the Reach in a time of dragons.”

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson is said to be more open-minded than most Nords,” remarked the third Matriarch. “But I would feel easier if Madanach were freed from Cidhna Mine.”

            Kaie rubbed her crest. “I have an idea. It’s known that the Stormsword is good friends with the Silver-Bloods and-“

…

“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

            The cry thundered across Skyrim’s skies on wings of a storm and in the war room of the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm, Sigdrifa Stormsword looked up from the map of Skyrim. Plans were _supposed_ to be underway for the attack on Whiterun but the commanders were resisting her authority, insisting that Bjarni should be leading the Stormcloaks now that Ulfric was dead. Her reminders that he had a bigger concern in the World-Eater fell on deaf ears.

            Thorygg Sun-Killer, commander of the Kreathling forces, cleared his throat in the awed silence left in the thunderous proclamation’s wake. “That’s it then,” he said as everyone looked in his direction. “Bjarni’s been declared Ysmir by the Greybeards. He needs to take formal command of our people.”

            “He can’t win a civil war and fight Alduin at the same time,” Sigdrifa reminded him.

            The olive-skinned warrior rolled his eyes. “Even the knowledge that he is recognised as Ulfric’s heir – and the successor to Talos – will win us many of the moderates, Stormsword. Your own daughter, the so-called hand-picked puppet of the Imperials, has already given Bjarni her allegiance.”

            “Callaina’s no friend of the Thalmor,” Arrald Frozen-Heart of Hjaalmarch agreed. “If it wasn’t for her intervention, the Thalmor might have recaptured Ulfric and Thorald. That would have been… bad.”

            “She’s a little too friendly to the Forsworn for my liking,” growled Kottir Red-Shoal.

            Thorygg shrugged. “She’s gotten them to stop raiding Falkreath. It’s a little hypocritical of us to disapprove of them rebelling against the Empire when we’re doing it too.”

            “The Forsworn are Daedric worshippers,” Sigdrifa reminded Thorygg. “Talos defeated them many times because of that.”

            “The Forsworn would take the Reach – and more importantly its silver – from us,” Kottir told the Kreathling.

            “You can’t talk about religious freedom without respecting all faiths,” Thorygg said. “To be frank, Bjarni’s got friends among the Dunmer and Argonians. Sigdrifa, you’re a fine tactician, but you’re not the most charismatic. Bjarni is likeable and he’s Ysmir, the Dragon of the North. For the good of the Stormcloaks and the memory of Ulfric, you need to cede command to him, at least in name.”

            Sigdrifa’s fist clenched. “Bjarni has to worry about the dragons.”

            “That’s been your excuse since he was revealed as Dragonborn,” Thorygg countered. “I think you’re afraid of losing relevance or even being set aside. Get over yourself and put Skyrim first.”

            “I _am_ putting Skyrim first,” Sigdrifa said grimly.

            “Bullshit,” Thorygg said. “You haven’t even reached out to your daughter. Didn’t you leave her for the Thalmor or something?”

            “I was already in the Pale Pass escorting Ulfric home when the Thalmor attacked Cloud Ruler Temple,” she said tightly. “Why would I have taken a sickly child on such a gruelling journey?”

            “You always have an answer, don’t you? Once you were married to Ulfric, you could have found an agent to bring her to Skyrim.” Thorygg’s expression was grim. “I’ve seen how you treat Egil and Bjarni like they’re tools instead of people. I don’t care to follow a commander like that.”

            “I’m fighting to save us all,” she reminded him. “Talos didn’t linger on sentimentality when things needed to be done.”

            “Is that what you call it?” Thorygg shook his head. “I’m leaving and putting my men under Bjarni’s command.”

            Sigdrifa went to move, but Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced caught her shoulder. “Steady, Stormsword,” warned the much younger man. “I know your heart’s in the right place. But Thorygg has a point. Bjarni needs to be publicly acknowledged as Ysmir and the successor to Ulfric. That could sway people like Balgruuf and Idgrod to our cause.”

            “And if it doesn’t?” she asked.

            Yrsarald shrugged. “We’ll let the dragons soften their Holds up until they’re begging us to save them. Bjarni might be more tolerant than Ulfric, but he won’t assist the Empire.”

            That… was a strategy she could live with. “I have no intention of ceding strategic command to Bjarni until he’s dealt with Alduin.”

            “Fair enough. He might be Ysmir, but he’s not a great general like Talos… yet.” Yrsarald released her shoulder. “I suspect Ralof will be his second. He’s been arms master to the boys for years.”

            Sigdrifa scowled. She’d be as happy to see the back of the rangy blond hearthman who didn’t know his place. Ralof didn’t like her and the feeling was quite mutual.

            She took a deep breath. “Do as your conscience dictates, Thorygg, but if your men aren’t ready to march on Whiterun when I command…”

            “I’ll wait for the Jarl’s reception of the axe he’ll be sent,” Thorygg said stiffly. “…You _are_ going to send one, right? Give him the chance to join our side before attacking?”

            “We’ll see,” she said shortly. “Talos didn’t care for social niceties, He cared for results.”

            As did she.


	16. Darkness Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, death and Cicero making bad puns.

 

Cirroc returned on a blustery day with a string of fine horses laden with heavy packs. “Two are mine,” he explained as Callaina helped him stable the horses. “The other eight are yours.”

            “I… see,” she said carefully.

            “Your inheritance by Yokudan law,” he told her. “Father ceded his rights a few years ago, which is the same as being legally dead for reasons of inheritance. That’s why Mother’s Lady of Elinhir.”

            “I… see.” She really didn’t. Redguard inheritance law wasn’t her specialty. “This is going to sound terribly Colovian of me, but are these sellable? Siddgeir’s debts were substantial and I don’t want anyone buying them up to have financial leverage over Falkreath Hold.”

            Cirroc looked startled. “Can they do that?”

            “Yes. Under Imperial law, which Falkreath is under at the moment, someone may send Fighters’ Guild members to seize goods from a debtor. Nenya tells me Companions are used up here. I’d rather be poor than saddled with my predecessor’s debts.”

            “It’s your inheritance,” Cirroc said with a shrug. “My mission is to assist the Dragonborn against the dragons. Hammerfell doesn’t want to be seen as standing aside in a crisis like this.”

            “Bjarni could use the help,” Callaina said with some relief. “I’m trying to talk the Forsworn into letting him have access to Sky Haven Temple in the Reach. It’s home to the greatest collection of Akaviri dragonlore in Tamriel.”

            Cirroc snorted. “The son of Ulfric Stormcloak being allowed to enter a Forsworn camp. I might see if I can go along to see what happens.”

            “I’d appreciate it,” Callaina told him. “Are you staying the night?”

            “I might as well.”

            Nenya and Callaina spent the rest of the day going over the goods from Hammerfell. It was everything a woman could use in setting up a home and while she wanted to keep the fine carpets, hangings and silverware, Callaina knew that it would be better used to pay off the remainder of Siddgeir’s debts.

            Cirroc left the next morning and Callaina was continuing her inventory of the inheritance when Quaestor Hadvar arrived. “I thought Falkreath was impoverished,” he observed as he entered the Great Hall.

            “It is,” Callaina told him flatly. “My brother Cirroc brought these goods as my inheritance, and I’m already inventorying them for sale so Siddgeir’s damned debts can be paid.”

            The burly Nord held up his hand. “Alright, alright, I didn’t know.”

            “How can I help you, Quaestor?” Callaina asked.

            “I’m here about the death of Idolaf Battle-Born,” he replied.

            “What’s to say? He was murdered by a Redguard traitor to Hammerfell. My brother chased her down and delivered her head to his mother in Elinhir.” Callaina sighed. “If the Battle-Borns want wergild, they’re going to have to wait in line.”

            “Can Cirroc corroborate this?” Hadvar asked.

            “If you can find him, I’m sure he can.” Callaina crossed her arms. “I don’t much appreciate the Empire trying to pick my husband for me.”

            “You need to have an heir and Idolaf was perfect for you,” Hadvar countered. “Now, it’s going to be much harder.”

            “I’m ruling this Hold for you. I don’t need you interfering in my relationships, if I were to have any.”

            “You rule by the Empire’s grace,” Hadvar told her. “A certain amount of initiative and independence is useful, Callaina, but don’t get above yourself or have any ideas about switching allegiances. Your mother would be a much worse candidate for the High King’s throne, and none of the other Jarls would follow _you_.”

            “Falkreath is enough and more than enough for me,” she said quietly. “Now, if you’re done with the veiled threats, I’d appreciate it if you leave. I want all this sold before the next tithe’s due.”

            Hadvar bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Jarl Callaina.”

…

It was probably a mistake to go to the Reach before consolidating his power in Eastmarch, but Bjarni wanted to have the knowledge to defeat Alduin before he focused on the civil war. So he and Ralof went back to Falkreath after he was hailed as Ysmir by the Dragonborn, arriving in the town after dark and heading straight for the Jarl’s longhouse.

            He was just passing the inn when something sharp brushed his ear, leaving a nasty gash, and landed with a thunk in the nearest post. Ralof cursed and dove into the darkness. Bjarni cast Candlelight and bellowed, drawing attention to the assassin. Someone had tried to kill him!

            Callaina emerged from the Deadman’s Drink, throwing a series of small blue-green lights along the street to reveal Ralof wrestling with an Argonian in black and red. “Brotherhood!” she gasped. “GUARDS!”

            Rayya and Nenya came running out and so did a couple guards. The Altmer gestured and the lizard stiffened, green light surrounding his scaly form. Ralof pulled him into a wrestling hold and wrenched, breaking his back with an ugly crack but leaving him alive to answer questions.

            The assassin looked between Bjarni and Callaina with wide eyes. “You can’t make me talk!”

            “Yes, I can.” Nenya gestured again and a blue-white glow formed around the Argonian. “Who sent you and why?”

            His lipless mouth went slack and his voice slurred like he’d drunk poppy. “Astrid sent me.”

            “Yes, we gathered that. But who hired you?”

            “I don’t know. I was to kill the woman. In the darkness, I thought the man was the woman.” He sighed. “You two look alike.”

            “We’re siblings,” Callaina said quietly. “Do you know why I was to be killed?”

            “I don’t know. Some matter of vengeance.” He shrugged. “Will you let me go now?”

            Ralof wrenched once again, this time around the neck, and the Argonian died with a shudder. “Thank Talos for small blessings. Bjarni could have died!”

            “If that Argonian had been a Khajiit, I’d be dead,” Callaina said grimly. “If vengeance is the reason, it might be easier to list those who wouldn’t want the last of the Aurelii to die.”

            “We should tear the Sanctuary down around their ears,” Bjarni said flatly. “Before they realise that this one is dead.”

            “No rest for the wicked,” Callaina sighed as she turned to Nenya. “I need ten guards right now. Ransack Solaf’s shop for any offensive spells and bring me Saviour’s Hide, the Masque and Glenroy’s Oathblade. If anything happens, you’re Jarl.”

            Nenya nodded and walked back towards the longhouse. Rayya frowned at Callaina. “Should you be leading this yourself?”

            “Yes. I don’t really intend to take anyone alive. I just need access to records.” Her expression was grim.

            “What if Astrid doesn’t keep anything written down?”

            “She will. She’ll want blackmail material.”

            Most of the guards weren’t keen on accompanying their Jarl to the Sanctuary but came anyway. Callaina placed her hands around the rock that surrounded the door and breathed something. Turquoise light cracked through the stone before the Black Door fell outwards, Bolund catching it before it hit the ground. Bjarni nodded in approval of his quick thinking.

            Astrid was in the front room as Callaina, Bjarni, Rayya and Ralof walked in. She was a beautiful Nord in her mid-forties with golden hair and a lithe figure. She went for a knife but a flick of Callaina’s fingers saw the weapon thrown into the wooden bookshelves. “Who and why?” the Jarl asked icily.

            The assassin rubbed her fingers. “I’m guessing Veezara failed.”

            “He’s dead,” Bjarni said bluntly. “He mistook me for my sister in the darkness.”

            “Dammit.” Astrid sighed and shook her head. “It wasn’t anything personal, Jarl Callaina.”

            “I got that. Now who hired you and why?” The Jarl’s fingers twitched, lightning sparking from tip to tip.

            Astrid eyed the bedroom. “One yell from me will bring a werewolf.”

            “And you’ll still be dead. Tell me who and you can leave Falkreath. Go set up shop in Cyrodiil. There’s plenty of merchants wanting everyone dead.”

            “There were a few candidates, so we had to hold a lottery. The one who won was Olfrid Battle-Born. He thinks you killed his son and blamed it on Saadia.”

            “I see. Who were the other candidates?”

            “If you think I’ll tell you that-“

            “Who’s there?”

            Astrid smiled grimly. “The person who killed Veezara, Arnbjorn.”

            A hulking werewolf lunged from the bedroom but Bjarni was ready. Shoving his sister aside, he unleashed Unrelenting Force on Arnbjorn and Astrid, throwing them down the stairs with a sickening crack.

            “So much for subtlety,” Callaina sighed. “Let’s go.”

            The rest of the Sanctuary put up a respectable fight but it was the jester and the girl child who surprised Bjarni. “We yield!” the glowing-eyed girl yelled. “The Brotherhood means you no harm!”

            “You just sent an assassin after me!” Callaina yelled. “I gave your leader a chance to come clean and she rejected it.”

            “Astrid had fallen from the Five Tenets,” the girl replied. “The others… are a great loss. I swear by the Night Mother that if you let us go, we will take no more contracts on you.”

            “You expect me to believe you?” Callaina said sardonically. “I could save everyone a lot of trouble by wiping out your damn coven here and now!”

            Then her expression slackened suddenly. “Darkness rises when silence dies?” she asked.

            “No.” Now it was the vampire girl who was shocked. “It can’t be.”

            The jester started to caper. “Listener! Jarl better Listen to her or Cicero will stab-stab-stabbity-kill-kill!”

            “What. The. Fuck?”  Bjarni said flatly.

            “It appears,” Rayya said with irony thick in her voice, “Our Jarl is now the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.”


	17. The Silence is Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This Callaina’s a lesbian because Rayya grew on me.

 

“Armand Motierre? Who the hell is Armand Motierre?”

            “A member of the Elder Council and the closest legitimate male kin to Emperor Titus Mede II,” Callaina said sardonically. “A toady and lickspittle of impressive proportions whose sole reason to exist is to apparently please the Thalmor. If he’s performed the Black Sacrament, his target is fairly obvious, and his backers more so.”

            Bjarni frowned. “He’s getting the Thalmor to kill the Emperor?”

            “No, Bjarni. The Thalmor are giving him the money to hire the Brotherhood to kill the Emperor, near as I can tell.” Callaina sighed and pinched the bridge of her beaky nose. “And the Night Mother tells me I can no more refuse to answer a Black Sacrament than I can to breathe.”

            “The Listener is correct,” Cicero confirmed. “She need not go herself but the Sacrament must be answered. A child of Mother’s has asked for Her help and like any good mother, she will give it.”

            “When the Night Mother’s got stronger maternal instincts than someone we both know,” Ralof said dryly.

            They had brought the Night Mother’s coffin to Falkreath and the Jarl’s longhouse, where it now sat in the cellar that also served as the Hold’s treasury. Rayya had closed the lead doors on her Jarl’s request with no little relief, for the Night Mother’s withered face was too knowing for her liking.

            “If it keeps the Legion busy while I’m chasing the means of defeating Alduin, I’m for it,” Bjarni finally said.

            “I never asked for this,” Callaina said, raising her sculpted face from her hands. Rayya wondered if the Jarl realised how truly beautiful she was. Probably not, for she was simultaneously the most selfless and self-centred woman around. She wound her self around the duty to Falkreath, making it the core of her identity, and sacrificed everything without a moment’s thought. Yet she defined herself by that duty and refused all attempts to sway her path. An interesting dichotomy.

            “No, but it’s happened,” Bjarni said with blunt sympathy. “You may save more lives as leader of a group of assassins than you would as Jarl or Imperial official. It’s time to make your choice, sister.”

            “I swore allegiance to you, Dragonborn,” the Jarl said softly. “If that means treason against the Empire…? Well, I suppose I’m already damned.”

            “You have been chosen for a terrible and sacred duty!” Cicero protested.

            “Hush, Cicero,” Babette told him. “The Listener isn’t like most of us, inured to our work. She must grow into the role.”

            “I wish the Night Mother had chosen someone else for this job,” Callaina said flatly. “But it isn’t and apparently my rejection of the Madgoddess set this in motion. Note I said ‘apparently’.”

            “Is it possible for you to refuse Black Sacraments on Stormcloaks?” Ralof asked practically.

            “She has to answer, but she can refuse the request,” Babette confirmed. “Until things are set up properly, I think it’s best I serve as Speaker… If I’m not presuming, Listener?”

            “Gods, no,” Callaina said gratefully. “Leaving Falkreath really isn’t an option at the moment. Motierre’s up at Volunruud, wherever the hell that is.”

            “I know where it is,” Babette said. “There’s a few bandits I can feed on along the way.”

            “I killed most of your friends,” Callaina said slowly. “You’re taking it very well.”

            “I mourn Veezara, Nazir and the rest,” the vampire child said quietly. “But the Night Mother isn’t to be defied, and I see now that She allowed this to happen as a purge. I just wish everyone but Astrid and Arnbjorn could be saved.”

            “If Astrid hadn’t taken a contract on me, she’d still be alive,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Go and talk to Motierre. How he plans to destabilise the Empire will be… interesting.”

            “Thank you. I’ll look out for a suitable recruit or two. There’s an assassin in Whiterun I’ve been wanting to approach.”

            “Irkand? He’s dedicated to Arkay… and explaining to my uncle that I’m now the mouthpiece for a Daedric Prince would be awkward,” Callaina said.

            “I was speaking of the former Morag Tong Jenassa, but I appreciate your warning.” Babette bobbed a curtsey. “I should return in three days. If not, track me from Volunruud and retaliate accordingly.”

            The undead girl vanished into the shadows and Ralof whistled long and low. “It would be ironic if the Thalmor did Skyrim a favour,” he noted.

            “Your idea of a favour and mine are vastly different,” Callaina said dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some rest.”

            Rayya waited until everyone was gone. “You drive yourself too hard,” she told the Jarl.

            Callaina looked blankly into the darkness beyond the firepit. “I drive myself as hard as I must. This… complication… changes nothing. My priority is Falkreath and getting it out of debt.”

            “We need to find somewhere for the Brotherhood,” Rayya said. “Maybe Pinewatch or Lakeview Manor?”

            “Explaining everything to Nenya’s going to be fun,” Callaina said ironically.

            “She can take a lot in her stride.” Rayya studied her Jarl. “You should start thinking about the next Moot. You can’t just arrive at the Blue Palace wearing homespun or Daedric artefacts.”

            Her gaze sharpened. “You’re assuming I survive until the winter Moot. Someone wanted the Brotherhood to kill me and I’ve committed myself to treason against the Empire.”

            “You _will_ survive,” Rayya vowed softly. “I swear it.”

            Those turquoise eyes softened. “I… appreciate that, Rayya. Thank you.”

…

“By the almighty Divines. You've come. You've actually come. This dreadful Black Sacrament thing... it worked.”

            “Of course it worked, oh ye of little faith,” Babette told the sleazy Breton tartly. “The Night Mother heard your pleas, Motierre.”

            “Yes, um.... So it would seem. Well, I won't waste your time. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the work I'm offering has more significance than anything your organization has experienced in, well, centuries.” The dark-haired man rubbed his hands nervously. Meeting an assassin in the antechamber of a draugr-riddled Nord tomb was unnerving, Babette supposed.

            “Go on,” was all she said. She knew what was going on, of course. The Listener and her bureaucratic background in the Empire – and perhaps a little insight from the Night Mother – had alerted her to the target.

            “As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable. But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of... ...the Emperor.”

            He paused dramatically and Babette reminded herself it was undiplomatic to roll her eyes at the petitioner. Her manners had grown lax under Astrid’s rule.

            He took her silence for surprise. “"It's a shocking request, I know. But it is inside the purview of what you Dark Brotherhood types do. Isn't it? If history is to be believed? You must understand. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and manoeuvring. Now you're here, as if the very stars have finally aligned. But I digress. Here, let me give you these. They are to be delivered to your, um... superior. Rexus. The items.”

            The bodyguard who brought over a small silver casket at his clap was a hardened Legion veteran whose blood was tainted with a truly exotic cocktail of alchemical mixtures. Babette thought she knew everything about alchemy in Tamriel, but there were a few components she’d never heard of. If they dealt often with Motierre over the next few months, maybe she could investigate it further.

            “Rexus will now give you two items which must be passed along to your superior. The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable - you can use it to pay for any and all expenses.”

            She supposed that an enchanted Elder Councillor’s amulet forged from High Rock gold and the finest amethysts of Kambria would be worth a pretty septim to someone. But Babette nodded sharply and accepted the items from the bodyguard. She was immune to poisons due to her state of undeath, after all.

            “Why do this?” she asked. “I mean, I’m philosophical about the rise and fall of rulers, but salient knowledge of the politics behind the act may allow us to tailor our approach as necessary after all.”

            “In the year 3E 41, Emperor Pelagius Septim was murdered in the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. Cut down by a Dark Brotherhood assassin. His killing ushered in, shall we say, a necessary change in Imperial policy. There are those now who wish for a similar change. I am sorry, but that's all I'm at liberty to say,” Motierre replied sagely.

            “We’ll require substantial compensation. The amulet is nice, but it’s only a down payment.”

            “Oh, my furtive friend. When Emperor Titus Mede II lies dead, there will be gold... a fortune in gold. But so much more! It is said that the Dark Brotherhood, in recent years, has been in decline. That you lack the power, wealth, and respect of days past. Is it not so? If you do this, if you kill the Emperor... Oh, how the masses will fear and respect you.” His eyes grew sly. “Surely that must please the Demon Child of Wayrest.”

            “It does,” she lied. She decided then and there he needed to die when this was done. No doubt the Listener would agree, but Motierre had clearly done his research, and he was the kind of man to try and clean up his loose ends.

            “Wonderful!” He clapped his hands like a child watching a jester. “Now, if we are done, I must simply leave this foul place.”

            “Be my guest,” Babette said sweetly. “I’ve already fed.”

            He blanched and his guard put his hand to his sword. But they wisely chose to leave the tomb rather than provoke their ire.

            Babette turned for the entrance. They would be busy over the next few months, it seemed.


	18. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mention of atrocity, war crime and genocide.

 

Cirroc returned two weeks after Callaina had been named Listener by the Night Mother. He walked in on Cicero trying to jolly her up with bad jokes and raised an eyebrow. “I’d have thought you’d have gotten a few more guards instead of a jester if you were going to hire anyone.”

            Callaina sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Cirroc. But tell you I must.”

            She related the news to the Sword-Saint, who simply sat and listened with a poised stillness that bespoke his monkish upbringing. When she was done, Cirroc pursed his lips. “Can I add Mother and my cousins to the no-kill list, if there is one? Elinhir’s critical and it’s only just come under Forebear control within the past two decades. The Crowns aren’t above hiring the Brotherhood.”

            “If they call, I have to answer. I can always refuse a request though,” Callaina replied with a sigh. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

            “You forget, the Yokudan gods are neither Aedra nor Daedra,” he told her. “I’d rather have my sister running the assassins than an enemy.”

            “Cirroc understands,” Cicero added.

            “I don’t. But while a feint may be elegant and a thrust powerful, sometimes the only appropriate combat move is a headbutt,” he said wryly. “Sword-Saints have been assassins at times.”

            Callaina nodded. “Well, that inheritance of mine paid off the debts Siddgeir racked up. It will be a lean winter and spring, but we are debt free.”

            “That means one less means of control,” Cirroc observed. “So now what?”

            “Politics it may be wise for you to stay out of,” she said quietly. “Things will be interesting over the next few months. Stay out of Solitude until after Vittoria Vicci’s wedding, okay?”

            “Okay,” he said slowly. “I owe Bjarni one anyway, so I’ll stick to the Old Holds.”

            “Be careful in Eastmarch,” she advised. “The Stormsword holds a grudge.”

            Cirroc’s expression grew opaque but he nodded. “Understood.”

            Callaina smiled thinly. “So, how have you been?”

…

“That’s a truly impressive command of Tamrielic,” drawled the Orc standing guard by the door. “How does it feel to be at the mercy of your countrymen, Nord?”

            Bjarni spat blood out and eyed the green-skinned brawler warily. “My commendations to Madanach for setting a trap. Now, will he talk to me politely or will I just have to Shout him arse over head?”

            The Orc’s eyes narrowed. “You _do_ look a bit like Ulfric.”

            “He’s my da and he’s dead. I happen to be the Dragonborn. But I bet you already know that.”

            “Ha, I can die now!” exulted one of the Forsworn prisoners. “I outlived Ulfric Stormcloak!”

            The Orc regarded Bjarni with a raised eyebrow. “Go and listen to the story of Braig, boy, then come back and ask me again.”

            His head still ringing from the she-Orc’s cuffs, Bjarni obeyed. He didn’t know where Ralof was, but after getting framed for the murder of the young Reachman Eltrys and Beitild Silver-Blood, he feared the worst.

            Over the course of an hour, he discovered the depths of his father’s atrocities during the Markarth Incident, and just how far the cruelties of the Silver-Bloods ran. No wonder the Reachmen hated all Nords, Imperial or Stormcloak. Most of the prisoners were addled by skooma and all were malnourished.

            Finally, he returned to the Orc, whose name was Borkul. “I wish to speak to Madanach, please.”

            “That’s King Madanach to you, boy,” Borkul growled.

            “Actually, as Ulfric’s heir and Ysmir, I’m technically the equal of him,” Bjarni corrected. “Now does Madanach want to talk to me or will I just remove myself from this prison with the power of the Thu’um alone?”

            Borkul grunted. “Don’t cause any trouble, boy.”

            Madanach was a wiry old Breton with shrewd blue eyes. “Ysmir? I’ve heard Nords refer to it but-“

            “It’s the traditional title for a Nord Dragonborn,” Bjarni said bluntly. “Yes, I am Ulfric’s son and the rightful leader of the Stormcloaks. No, I don’t see any problem with the Forsworn wanting freedom from the Silver-Bloods. If you give me access to the Karthspire and the Akaviri temple on top of it, I’ll even forgive the insult of you framing me for murder and help you escape this place.”

            Madanach blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?”

            “Because my sister Callaina’s the Jarl of Falkreath and _she’s_ been reaching out to Lost Valley. Even if I weren’t a man to keep my word, she’s the Stormsword’s daughter and the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood besides.” Bjarni shuddered. “She wouldn’t even have to commit kinslaughter. Just get her paternal half-brother to handle me.”

            “Cirroc Sword-Saint’s reputation has reached us,” Madanach said dryly.

            “I’ve seen him in action. If I didn’t hit him with the first Shout, I’m a dead man.”

            Madanach grinned. “Smart boy.”

            The King in Rags rose to his feet. “It was foretold we would regain our freedom in a time of dragons. That time is now. Could you, a dragon-man, honestly say you’d let the Reach chart its own destiny free of Skyrim?”

            “Do you really think the Reach can stand alone?” Bjarni countered. “You have many talented fighters, it’s true, but the knights of High Rock would unite to conquer the place if Skyrim lost control. The silver mines are too critical to be left alone.”

            “You say you don’t have a problem with our freedom but advise against independence?”

            “I see no reason why the Reach-folk can’t provide the Jarls of this Hold, so long as you aren’t going to butcher random innocent Nords. Call yourself King or whatever – but you’d still be Jarl of the Reach and have a say in the Moot.”

            “You want me in your government?” Madanach sounded more amused than outraged.

            “My mother’s already there. I think I’d rather trust a Forsworn over her.”

            Madanach pursed his lips. “Prove yourself in our traditions, grandson of Catriona, and you can rule the Reach. Until then, if we escape Markarth, you may have free passage to Karthspire… if you murder the Silver-Bloods’ Nord snitch Grisvar the Unlucky. Become one of us. Become a Forsworn.”

            Bjarni hesitated. It was one thing to openly face an enemy in combat but to murder someone?

            “You can challenge him to a fight if it makes it easier for you, but he must die by your hand,” Madanach said softly.

            _You can’t expect your sister to get her hands dirty for you,_ his conscience reminded him. _You must do some of your killing yourself._

Grisvar was sitting down watching a couple of Bretons work. “So, Ulfric’s son deigns to join me,” he sneered. “How’s it feel to be thrown into a cold dark hole for the rest of your life?”

            “Don’t worry, Grisvar,” Bjarni said grimly. “You will have warmth and light for the rest of yours.”

            Then he Shouted “YOL!”

            One of the Forsworn spat out a mouthful of skooma and reached for his shiv, only to be grabbed by his friend.

            “Madanach’s recruited him!” he was yelling. “Boy’s on our side!”

            “How do you know?” demanded the teary-eyed Reachman.

            “He’s not killing us,” the other one said grimly.

            “You want out, come on,” Bjarni said, nodding towards the main chamber. “My name’s Bjarni, my sister’s the Matriarch of Falkreath, and my grandmother’s Catriona.”

            They assembled in the main chamber. Madanach was already there. “Yol?” he asked.

            “In Dragonish, it means fire,” Bjarni told him.

            “Grisvar was warm for the rest of his life,” chuckled one of the Reachmen cruelly. “So now what, Madanach?”

            “We give the Silver-Bloods hell.” The King in Rags’ smile was grim.

            Just before they breached the dwarven ruins beneath Markarth, a vaguely familiar Breton woman met them, accompanied by a heavily bandaged Ralof. “Thongvor’s already dead,” she reported to Madanach. “Our Stormcloak friend here butchered him when he found out about Bjarni mac Catriona being framed for murder.”

            “I like him already,” Madanach said with a grin. “How have you been, Kaie?”

            “I’ve been well, Uncle. Our pilgrimages to the old places in Falkreath are permitted again.” Kaie smiled a little. She was really quite attractive. “Once it is known you have escaped, Thonar will bring the rest of the Silver-Bloods’ forces to bear.”

            “Good. We can wipe out the family altogether.”

            Bjarni clasped Ralof’s shoulder. “You alright?”

            “I got hit on the head by Yngvar the Singer,” Ralof scowled. “Kaie and the Forsworn in the Warrens healed me up. What’s this business about mac Catriona?”

            “My mother’s mother is a Forsworn,” Bjarni told him.

            “She’s a Hag,” Kaie added. “A highly respected one.”

            “That explains a lot about Sigdrifa,” Ralof said dryly.

            “No, she’s just unpleasant,” Kaie corrected. “Many Matriarchs are quite civil if you’re respectful to them.”

            Madanach nodded to the door. “Let’s take them by surprise.”

            It was night when they emerged from the tunnels into Markarth. Predictably, Thonar was there, talking about how he was going to kill them all. Bjarni just Shouted him and his guards off the cliff path with a meaty thud.

            Madanach shuddered. “I’ll never get used to that.”

            “It’s good for clearing out the trash though,” Kaie joked grimly. “So, do we make it for the gates?”

            “Yes. We could take Markarth tonight but holding it will be a problem.” Madanach took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

            The few guards abroad at night didn’t stand a chance against twelve vengeful Forsworn and soon they were free of Markarth, running down the Silver Road towards Karthwasten with whoops and war cries. At Kolskeggr Mine, Madanach called a halt, and they all sat down relievedly.

            “Kaie, take the boy and his man to Karthspire. If Helwen complains, tell her it’s by my command. Make sure he doesn’t go wondering around the Reach without adult supervision.”

            “I’m a man!” Bjarni protested.

            “Not by our standards,” Madanach said bluntly. “You must kill an enemy of the Reach and deliver their head to the Matriarch of your clan. That would be Catriona at Glenmoril Coven.”

            “Oh fuck me,” Bjarni swore.

            Madanach grinned. “I’m your great-uncle, my boy.”

            “Does anyone have mead? I need mead.”

            Kaie smiled. “Don’t worry, Bjarni. We’ll get some on the way to Karthspire.”


	19. Hiatus

Just as a heads up to the readers, this story is currently on hiatus because it's a very intense and political drama, and at the moment, I don't have the spoons to write it due to real life issues. Thanks for reading.


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